


A Lovers' Farewell VII: Love is Kind of Crazy With a Spooky Sentinel Like You

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Series: A Lover's Farewell by Blue Champagne [8]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, other pairing - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 66,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...and if a sentinel *isn't* a sentinel, what is it exactly?<br/>This story is a sequel to A Lovers' Farewell VI: Love Will Prevail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lovers' Farewell VII: Love is Kind of Crazy With a Spooky Sentinel Like You

**Author's Note:**

> There's a spoiling warning at the bottom of the doc. Go to the last segment and scroll down to read it. No noncon or BDSM, not even lightweight or purely emotional.

## A Lovers' Farewell VII: Love is Kind of Crazy With a Spooky Sentinel Like You

by Blue Champagne

Author's webpage: <http://members.aa.net/~bluecham/>

Author's disclaimer: I own nothing. At all. Well, okay, I lie, but Paramount and Petfly own most of the characters.

* * *

* * *

>A Lovers' Farewell VII: Love is Kind of Crazy With a Spooky Sentinel  
Like You

* * *

>Pt. One: In the Cool of the Evenin', When Everything is Gettin' Kinda  
Groovy...

* * *

The delicate electronic purr of a phone with the ringer on "soft", further muffled by a pair of jeans, sounded near Blair's ear. 

Damn. It was the cell-- _his_ cell. 

He leaned over the bed's edge, burrowing around in the dimness; finally the phone's soft "ready" light shone up at him. He picked the phone up and clicked it on. "Yeah. Sandburg. Who are you and what do you want at four in the morning?" 

"It's me, Blair." 

"Rafe?" Blair snorted, snuffled, shook himself, and managed to dig his way out of some covers so he could speak clearly. "Are you and Stephen okay?" 

"I'm fine; Stephen's an open question. I was wondering if you could come over." 

"Rafe, man. What's wrong? Talk to me, Brian." Blair struggled to a seated position on the double bed with box spring that had replaced the futon. 

"He's okay--he's...well...he says he's okay. But I told you how he's been--look, I don't like the way he's acting, and if you were here you wouldn't either." 

"This isn't a relationship problem, is it?" 

"Blair..." 

"Okay, yeah, so he's getting--what'd you call it--'spooky' again?" 

"Cubed. He's on the roof." 

"So?" There was a tiled patio on Brian's roof, on the flat area between the gables of the house; it had a glass-and-ironwork dome over it, with artful ironwork gutters, as a watershed. Blair continued "Yeah, okay, I grant you it's four in the morning, but maybe he just can't sle--" 

"He's on top of the dome." 

" _What_?" 

"I asked him how the hell he got up there when I didn't see a ladder leaning against the rain gutter, and he just kind of waved it off, said he was an old hand at house climbing. He'll barely look at me." 

"I know _that_ feeling. Are you up there with him?" 

"The patio, yes; the dome, no." 

"Okay...okay..." Blair took a deep breath, blinking in the dark. "So he _is_ talking to you?" 

"When he _will_ ," Rafe clarified. "He's not zoned; he just wants me to leave him alone. And he's not cycling, either way--" 

"Wants you to leave him alone?" 

"Not _alone_ alone, he wasn't rude or anything. He just said he was busy and he'll tell me what he's doing when he figures it out." 

"Christ in a miniskirt. When Jim says things like that, Simon alerts SWAT." Blair managed to swing his legs out from under the mountain of blankets on his bed and checked the clock again. Four-fifteen. "Okay--then just tell me what you can _see_ him doing." 

"He's singing. Quietly, thank God. Not that he doesn't have a great voice, but he's...well, I sure as hell would hate to think of him attracting any attention up there, even beyond the whole general embarrassment factor, let's just say that." 

"Brian, what--" 

"He's naked." 

**"WHAT?!"**

"Well, not _totally_ naked, he's got a pair of my silk shorts on, but that's it." 

"Did he say why he's, uh, underdressed?" 

"Because he needs to feel the air currents. Blair, I gotta tell you I feel like Nicholas Cage's character in 'Birdy', here." 

"Or like you know how Kirk felt when he saw Spock swimming in the whale tank, mind-melding with Gracie," Blair muttered. 

"What do you do when _your_ sentinel pulls this kind of thing on you?" 

"On the occasions I don't get killed because of it, I mostly just play it by ear. Okay, Stephen's singing and feeling the air; we're getting somewhere..." Blair was locating clothing, not bothering with the light; he had this week's bedroom-floor landscape memorized, as per usual when he'd been too busy to keep it picked up. Lately he'd been lucky to have enough time to change his underwear at all. "As long as you're sure it isn't some kind of weird synesthetic zone, then it sounds like he's doing touch-and-sound experiments--maybe with sight in there someplace, since the moon's full and all. Which would also explain why he chose to do this at four in the morning, if he needs a high vantage point so he can see around, and he has to be nearly naked at the same time to feel the air." 

There was a pause, and Brian said "Yeah...that makes sense. _Except_ for the part where he wouldn't explain to me what he was doing--or hell, that he wouldn't have told me beforehand and asked me to come up with him--I just woke up and saw he was gone. This kind of thing _is_ why I'm here, for God's sake." Brian sighed. "I was too pissed and confused for that to occur to me, I guess. I suppose things like that get easier after you've been a guide for a few years." 

Blair grinned as he bounced around yanking up his jeans, phone held between shoulder and ear. "Yeah. Trust me, man, you're doing great--you've figured out as much of his trip as I have, probably because you _do_ have a hell of an instinct, and problem-solving's your forte. I just had a head start with the whole sentinel idea, that's all. It took me a while to start putting together stuff like that, because I had to learn to get inside the head of someone with enhanced senses--I had to get used to _Jim_. Besides, you know, sound _is_ really only a very delicate, sensitive form of touch, as we've discussed--like taste and smell both being, basically, chemical detector/processors--" 

"Blair, I know all that. Don't lecture at me. Look, he's in a spot where one false move on either my part or his could get him killed, and he may not be zoned, but he's also not being reasonable. I need backup over here before I try anything drastic, like going up and hauling his ass down--or even just getting his attention and making him talk to me; I startle him, he could fall--and Jim's the only other person I can call about something like this. And frankly, I'm afraid he'll get one look at Stephen and go apeshit on us, maybe bellow Stephen's name--or worse, head straight for the dome and climb it. That thing's sturdy enough, but _not_ designed for panicked Neanderthals to be stomping around on it, and personally I wouldn't want to see either of them fall a story to the tiles, accompanied by a hail of broken glass. So we need _you_." 

"Whoa, man, settle down, I got you. Anything else you can tell me?" 

"No, not really." 

"Well, at least it sounds like Stephen's coherent, just...wrapped up in what he's doing. Some kind of meditative...sensual autohypnosis thing, man. Jim's definitely done that--and also ignored me, or told me to bug off, until he'd finished figuring out what he was trying to figure out. Remember that they're trying to correlate a hell of a lot more data than you or I ever get swamped with at once; and they get pissy if you distract them. The only thing _really_ scary here is--let's face it--whatever the reasons, Stephen is, in fact on top of that dome in his underwear at four a.m. Singing." 

"Have Jim's senses ever affected his judgement like that? Aside from Alex." 

"Well, his judgement's definitely been called into question more than once, but Jim's a pretty gung-ho cowboy kind of guy anyway. Hard to tell if it's the senses or just Jim being Jim. Stephen's different...at least I thought he was," Blair muttered in concern, looking under the bed for a missing sock. 

Brian growled quietly "He _is_ different from Jim that way. He's well-considered. He's careful. Which is why I'm talking to you right now. If this were any less un-Stephen a thing to do, I wouldn't be so nervous about it." 

"I have to admit I wasn't sure what to think when you told me Stephen'd been getting...just a trifle strange, working with the senses and all...but if this is any indication--" Blair got done tying and zipping and buttoning. "Okay, I got clothes on, I'll be over in a few." 

"Finish the night out here if you want. I know you haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately, either." 

"I might do that. Let me leave a note for Jim--I'm glad I was sleeping in my room; the cell phones wake him if they ring upstairs." 

"What are you doing downstairs?" 

"I came in at midnight, and he's barely had any sleep the last few days, like you said. Sometimes he wakes up if anything disturbs him when he's stretched to the walls like that, even me--he gets stuck in emergency mode, kind of, and jumps awake at the slightest provocation. You just keep a close eye on Stephen, okay? If he falls, Jim will kill us all." 

"If he falls, I'll kill _him_. Go ahead and use your key when you get here." Rafe hung up. 

* * *

Blair emerged onto the roof from the spiral staircase that led from the garret level of the house. The moon was only a day from full, about equidistant between zenith and horizon, toward the west at the moment. Low clouds scudded across the sky, their different apparent speeds and formations denoting their height above ground. 

Brian was sitting in one of the chairs at the patio table under the dome. He was barefoot, dressed only in a pair of old jeans. He sat with his arms folded and his legs straight out in front of him, ankles crossed, leaning back to look up through the dome at Stephen. When Blair came up, he said softly, not looking away from Stephen, "Hey, cute stuff." 

Despite his own preoccupation with Stephen, Blair managed to spare a thought to how Rafe looked in the brilliant moonlight. His smooth, now-tanned skin was cast in a sepulchral, silvery light; if it weren't for the jeans and his eyes glinting, he'd have resembled nothing so much as a classical statue. Apollo at rest, Blair thought. God, he's pretty. "Hi, Brian. How's he doing?" 

"See for yourself." 

Blair came to stand beneath the dome next to Rafe; he glanced up. Somehow, he'd expected Stephen to be sitting down--Gods knew _he_ would have been if he'd been balanced on top of a glass-paned dome that added another story's worth of height to the three-story house--but the younger Ellison was standing, staring up toward the sky, one arm outstretched over his head, looking even more like a classical statue than Brian. And from this particular angle, the family resemblance he shared with Jim was a lot more marked, Blair noticed with a brief smirk. Damn, the longer he kept on with that beefed-up weight routine he'd started a while back, the more similarities to Jim's his build took on. 

"He wears your shorts well," Blair noted. 

"I got a thing for his swimming pool, he's got a thing for my weight room," Brian shrugged. "Once we stopped spotting him with the dumbbells." 

And yeah, Stephen was singing softly. "...cum venit tempus, quod to floruisti, in ramis tuis...ave, ave fuit tibi...quia calor..." 

"Do you know what he's singing?" Brian murmured. 

"It's called 'O Viridissima Virga'. It means 'greenest branch'; it's a song by Hildegaard von Bingen, about Mary. He probably learned it in church as a kid. Jim said he used to sing all the time." 

"Nobody told _me_ he could sing." 

"I thought he pretty much didn't any more...has he given you any hint about what he's doing yet?" 

Rafe shook his head. "He's doing a good job of ignoring me. I don't want to make enough noise to break his concentration, as much for fear of alerting the neighbors as of startling him into falling. I figured as long as he didn't zone on whatever he's doing, it might be safest just to keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn't get dizzy or anything." 

Blair sighed. "I'm gonna go up there and see if I can--" 

"Wait, wait--maybe you better let me, cute stuff. I know how much acrophobes love being out in the middle of a transparent surface fifteen feet off the ground. Well, off the _roof_ \--" 

"You're not helping, Brian--" 

"Come on, you told me how you nearly shit yourself on that glass-bottom tour. I'd have gone up myself already, but like I said, I wanted some backup here in case anything happened before I--" 

"Brian, if he falls, and you're the one still down here, you could actually keep him from killing himself without getting _you_ killed, and I couldn't. Plus I weigh less than you." 

"Not by much." 

"Does that mean you're not sure the dome can take the weight?" Blair wondered nervously. 

Rafe sighed. "No, it can. And you do have a point about who can break whose fall without breaking himself in the process. Just keep your weight on the iron braces, not the panels. You sure you'll be okay?" 

"No, so keep an eye out. If I freeze up there it'll be up to you to get me the hell down." 

"This just keeps getting better," Brian muttered. 

"Get up and help me. And don't grab my wad or anything; if you make me so much as twitch, I'll probably lose everything and you'll have _two_ basket cases to deal with." 

"I'm kind of going to _have_ to grope your butt, though." 

"I don't think we have a lot of choice about that, unless you think you can just kind of toss me up there." 

"I could if I didn't mind killing you and Stephen. Just think of it as the utilitarian grope it is, and be careful..." Brian got Blair situated standing in front of him, grabbed him at the waist and lifted. "Now stretch up and grab the gutter rim--don't worry, it'll hold you..." He shifted his grip, both hands now supporting Blair's weight at the hips, Blair kind of sitting on Brian's hands. This gave Brian some flex in the arms he could use to lift, as he kept the other man's weight centered over his own center of gravity with an ease of balance that never failed to impress Blair. 

Except maybe right now; he was too nervous to care. Brian was saying "Get ready--and one, and two, and--" 

"Hold it! Let me get a better grip...okay. Now." 

Brian hoisted. Blair gripped the painted ironwork struts and heaved himself up, nearly kicking Rafe in the head in the process. 

"Hey!" 

"Sorry, there's no place to put my...here we go." Blair got halfway stable and began to pick his way up and over to Stephen. 

"Don't look down, Sandburg. And if you do have to, just keep looking straight at me. I'll catch you if you slip." 

"Sure you will," Blair muttered. 

Stephen glanced around and down. His hair shone colorlessly in the bright moonlight; his eyes somehow managed to shine blue, like stars. "Hi, Blair." He smiled. "I heard you come in. I guess Brian ratted me out?" 

"He was worried about you. And now I am, too." 

"I thought you hated heights." 

"I do, so you mind telling me what the fuck you're doing up here before I have a heart attack?" 

"I'll show you. I think I've about got it figured out now." He looked back up at the sky. "You remember talking about chaos theory and chaotic systems with Jim and me the other day?" 

Blair nodded slowly. 

"The 'butterfly' theory--the part about the butterfly's wings beating one time, combining with so many other factors, to cause a hurricane to form thousands of miles away, one that wouldn't have formed if even one factor so small were missing...it got me thinking--about things that ought to be possible, if that theory is correct..." 

"Yeah?" Blair waited. 

"Let me concentrate. I have to blend sight, touch and sound for this, and I've never tried to blend sight with anything else before. It's _happened_ before, but I've never been able to do it on purpose, you know?" 

Blair licked dry lips and said carefully "Yeah, Brian and I were just talking last night about the difference between things that seem to come instinctively to you--to just happen--and the things we're trying to teach you to actually _do_ , more like what Jim does, without such an intense synergistic aspect to it. Like focusing in on one sense without zoning, and focusing two together, like with piggybacking and stuff." 

"Well, I think I'm getting a clue, or at least...maybe part of one. Although things still seem to kind of...flow...look, can you see the leaves on that tree?" One of the numerous, huge old trees in the yard stood fairly near the east wall of the house. 

"No, it's too dark, but I can see the tree." 

"I've been experimenting with different tones and syllables, and the different ways they make the air move, along with the heat of my breath making it rise--I haven't managed to work anything else in yet--when I try fanning the air, too, or changing the volume level of the tone too much, or anything else like that--it gets all messed up and I lose...I lose my place. It ought to be _possible_ to use factors like that, but I haven't figured out how. Hell, I can't explain--just watch this. 'Quoniam dit sera ipsius...frumentum...quia calor solis...calor solis...calor solis..." the words repeated ever more softly. Blair waited...and stared as Stephen held out a hand just as a leaf, blown by the breeze from the tree he'd pointed out, fluttered over like a bird, covering nearly forty feet, spinning smoothly in the air, to land lightly in his outstretched hand. 

"Holy _shit_ ," Blair hissed in shock. 

"Kyrie," Stephen sang in a whisper, taking no notice of Blair. "Kyrie, Christe eleison...eleison...eleison..." The leaf became airborne in the breeze again, fluttering around them in a circle, then gliding downward; Rafe automatically held out a hand, and the leaf settled in it as Blair and Stephen watched. Brian stared at it, then lifted his eyes to Stephen, smiling hesitantly, astonished, enraptured, uncertain. 

Stephen smiled, a strange light filling his eyes, seeming to surround him. He looked back up at the sky. "I don't know how long this next part will take," he said. "I haven't tried it yet, though I think I've got it all worked out." 

"Got all what worked out?" Blair said in a faint voice. 

"Watch the clouds," Stephen said softly, "the lowest ones, between us and the moon--like clumpy fog, you can almost touch them..." He began to sing again, both arms extended up toward the sky this time--the better to concentrate on feeling the air, Blair supposed. 

It did seem to take a while. Blair and Brian were both motionless for a subjective eternity as Stephen alternated between periods of soft song and silence, nearly unmoving otherwise except for his eyes, which slowly scanned the sky and the horizon almost continuously. Occasionally, he'd cock his head in the listening mannerism he shared with Jim--though it seemed to be more a habit than a requirement. Blair could see why Brian had been worried. This was downright eerie. 

And it only got worse. The formation of small, low clouds traversing the moon's face were where Stephen's eyes were now focused; Blair watched tensely...until he realized that one of those clouds was no longer moving. 

He felt his blood run cold when he saw the cloud, after a period of softly beginning to...shred, come apart, like cotton being pulled at in slow motion...begin to move again--in the opposite direction from every other cloud at its H above G. Stephen began to laugh softly, in a high, breathy tone. 

Then he gave a few soft, panting breaths, swayed, and his knees buckled as his arms fell. 

"Jesus, STEVE--" Blair made a grab and missed. 

Brian was there, darting to the point they could both see Stephen's lax body tumbling toward. When Stephen landed on him, it did indeed knock him flat, but he had Stephen safely near-lengthwise relative to Rafe's body when they hit the tiles, protecting Stephen's head and spine. "Christ, Stephen, that was my ass," he muttered. 

"Brian! Is he all right?" 

Brian did a quick examination. "His vitals are fine...he's coming around." 

They both waited tensely until Stephen's eyes fluttered open. "Brian?" 

"Are you all right?" Brian said. 

Stephen winced. "My head hurts like hell. God, that's like...I can't even describe it. I thought the melismas in 'For Unto Us' were complicated..." 

"Are you all _right_?" 

"I think so, except for the headache. Jesus, I won't be trying _that_ again soon. It's okay, Brian. Maybe you better help Blair get down?" 

Brian settled him in a patio chair and moved under where Blair was tentatively picking his way back down toward the edge of the dome. With a final frustrated glance and sigh in Stephen's direction, he held up his arms. "Any time you're ready, cute stuff." 

"Don't hold your breath waiting for _that_ ," Blair bitched, but it was pro forma. They needed to get Stephen inside. 

* * *

"Come on, you two. There's no need to get bent out of shape. It's not like I expected to faint. I said I was sorry for worrying you..." 

"...because you didn't _tell_ us what you _did_ expect, either!" Blair snapped. "Christ. I can't even imagine the kind of mathematical hoops you were jumping through. That shouldn't have been possible for any normal human being. The senses shouldn't be able to give that kind of...you'd have to be a whole fucking meteorology lab complete with sensing equipment and computers to process the data to do what you just did--shit, even _that_ wouldn't do it, *shouldn't* do it--" 

"No hoops...I'm not a damn silver iodide seed plane, you know, I didn't have to calculate everything to the last decimal--you're right, nobody could do _that_ , not even a lightning calculator. It just--well, enough parts of it just--seemed to...mm..." Stephen winced, rubbing at his forehead. "Guys, I really didn't think anything would come of it. It seemed so farfetched. But I knew...it was something I needed to...explore." 

Brian was sitting behind Stephen on a couch in the downstairs front parlor, grimly rubbing his shoulders, as Stephen held his own head, massaging slowly at his temples in a circular motion. "Ease up for the moment, Blair," Rafe said. "He's hurting pretty bad, here. And we've both been after him to start exercising this synergy thing, so he can control it, instead of the other way around." 

"Hey, you were the one who called me up all pissed off. And we *didn't* tell him to start fucking with the weather! What's next, rain dancing? Oh, God, I didn't say that, just forget I said that--" 

Stephen moaned again. 

"Take it easy," Brian murmured to him. 

"I'm trying," Stephen muttered, "but it's not every day I extend far enough to hear the clouds moving in the sky." 

Blair, who'd been pacing, stopped dead. "What? What did you say, Stephen?" 

"I said..." he blinked, looking up at Blair, taking in his expression, the hugeness of his deep blue eyes. "Blair, my God. What's wrong?" 

"What you just said. Is there a reason you put it like that?" 

"You mean 'It's not every day I extend far enough to hear the clouds moving in the--'" 

Blair broke for the kitchen and was back in a second with a glass of water. "Look at this." 

Stephen looked. "It's a glass of water. Blair, my head really hurts right now..." 

" _Look_ at it! Focus in." 

Stephen sighed and focused his eyes on the water. Brian's hands on his shoulders grew still. "What am I looking for, Blair? Pipe sediment?" 

"Can you see the molecules?" 

"Can I _what_?" 

"See the molecules! Can you see the molecules of the water? Of the air?" 

"Blair, I don't even want to try with my head like this, it feels like it's about to burst open. What's the matter?" 

Blair sighed, setting the water down on the coffee table and slumping into a chair; Brian and Stephen both stared quizzically at him. 

"It's probably nothing," Blair said, between deep, whooshing breaths. "Probably nothing. I'm probably panicking over nothing..." his eyes opened and he focused on the two of them. "But if this is an omen, I can't even start to count the ways I don't like it. We're not going to let you lose your way, Stephen. Remember that." 

Stephen just gazed at him a moment in puzzlement, then finally, slowly, nodded, his concern evident. "Okay, Blair. I'll remember." 

"You haven't been floating in a sensory deprivation tank lately, have you?" 

"What? No." 

"Good. That's good, man. Stay the hell away from those things, all right? And be careful of the bathtub, at least if you're in it alone." 

"Whatever you say, Blair." 

Rafe looked grim. "Cute stuff, I think we better put Stephen and his splitting headache back to bed, and then you can give me the short version of what's got you in such a lather, all right? We can go into detail later, after Stephen's feeling better." Stephen did, in fact, look bad enough off that it wasn't surprising he didn't argue. Blair knew pain when he saw it. 

"Yeah, Brian," Blair sighed. "Stephen? You make it back upstairs okay, or do you need help?" 

"Uh..." Stephen blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll be fine. I'll sit under the heating pad for a few, try to relax the muscles a little." 

"Good idea," Brian said. "Do your breathing. Remember--" 

"'Everything flows from the breath,'" Stephen murmured. "I remember. I had to get a Tai Chi master for a guide." Stephen turned and accepted Rafe's gentle kiss. "The aspirin still in the same place?" he asked faintly. 

"Yeah, my bathroom." They kissed again and Stephen got up; Blair reflexively leaned out to help steady him. Stephen opened his eyes and paused in his upward lurch to peck Blair's full mouth lightly, leaning on the younger man's shoulder. "I'll be okay, Blair. Don't worry." 

"Stephen, we love you. You did something almost impossible to believe and then collapsed. At least grant us the privilege of _worrying_ , all right? We'll talk in the morning. You take your head to bed." 

"I'll be up in just a few minutes," Rafe promised. 

Stephen nodded again, still watching Blair, before straightening, beginning to rub his temples again and starting from the room, in the direction of the big staircase. 

Blair sat back down with a thud, letting his head hang, staring at the clasped hands hanging loosely between his knees. 

"You need a push or something?" Rafe wondered. 

"Barnes," Blair said. 

There was a silence. 

Rafe muttered "Barnes could do what Stephen just did?" 

"Not that I know of, no. But when she came out of the tank, down in South America...you know all about that, right?" 

"Yeah. I read all your stuff on it; we've been over it." 

"The first thing she said--and this was just before she flipped and fried her circuits, biting off more than her body could bear--that she could see the molecules in a drop of water...and hear the clouds moving in the sky. Since clouds don't make noise unless they're hosting an electrical storm, I assumed she meant she could hear and interpret the motion of the atmosphere that precisely, know how much moisture, or anything else, it was carrying where, and what the air currents were doing at different altitudes, and like that--like Stephen just did." 

Brian's color faded slightly beneath his tan. "Jesus. But she'd also ingested some kind of locally growing drug, possibly a hallucinogen, you said." 

"That was just a guess. It _could_ have been something sentinel-specific in action; it did affect Jim, but a general hallucinogen would have affected him in _some_ way, too. We still don't know exactly what that stuff was, because Jim couldn't read the writing on the temple wall like she could, and I'd never seen anything like it before." 

"Stephen's not Barnes. He's no psycho." 

"You're the one who said he's been getting strange lately and it's starting to worry you." 

"There's a little spooky and then there's murder and capitol-offense thievery. Barnes was a _nut_." 

"She could be surprisingly clearheaded," Blair said dryly. 

"Yeah, psychokiller qu'est-ce que c'est kind of clearheaded. You think Stephen could kill? Stephen couldn't even _steal_." 

"I hate to break it to you, Brian, but she wasn't a psychokiller or anything like it. The ability to kill in the course of obtaining a desired goal does not automatically make someone insane; it's called 'having a motive'. That's why the defense rents all those shrinks to testify in murder cases where they're going for an insanity verdict. She may arguably have been a form of sociopath; she's nobody I'd want on my debutante ball guest list, definitely. But Barnes was not _crazy_ until after the grotto. That was when she started talking about casting off one's flesh via deadly nerve gas and shit like that." 

"Yeah, okay. Well, does Stephen strike you as being _anything_ like Barnes?" 

Blair sighed gustily in frustration. 

"Come on, cute stuff. You knew her, before _and_ after. Is Stephen anything like either version?" 

Blair finally shook his head. "No. Stephen's a beautiful person. Loving as all get out. Amazingly so for somebody who's so good at what Stephen does for a living, and who came out of what he and Jim did. But Alex...I admit I was a bit caught up in the excitement of finding another sentinel, so that may have blinded me a little, but I still didn't see anything out of the ordinary about her that way until we found out who'd done all that shit she'd done...she was an artist. She seemed like a nice person. She acted concerned when I told her my roommate had freaked on me and thrown me out." He sighed, shaking his head and rubbing tired eyes with one hand. "Like I said, Brian, I'm probably worrying for nothing. We just need to keep a little bit tighter a watch on Stephen. Only for his own safety, that's all I mean. That can't hurt, can it?" 

Rafe shook his head, smiling a little. "No. It can't." He held out his arms. "C'mere just a minute, Sandburg; you look pretty rattled." 

Blair got up and came to him, plopping down on the sofa facing his friend, letting the other man gather him close as he leaned comfortably over, legs curled up to one side. They kissed and nuzzled a moment; then Brian tapped Blair's nose lightly with a fingertip and said "He's _my_ sentinel, remember. My responsibility, I mean. Yeah, we need your help, but don't forget who's ultimately going to be the fall guy here." 

"Like Jim said to you once, he's really all of our responsibility, if we all care about him. Besides, I feel responsible for getting _you_ into this, too." 

"Hubris, cute stuff." 

"I know, but sometimes I even feel responsible for Jim having to deal with the senses--and for a while, I think he did kind of equate me with them. Like if it weren't for me, they'd never have shown back up, or they'd at least have gone away." 

"You know better." 

"Of course I do. We're not talking rational thoughts here, we're talking feelings. It's okay, Brian. I've got my shit together. No panic attack; I'm all right." 

"He really scared you, didn't he?" Brian whispered, barely audible. He stroked Blair's cheek with soft, soothing affection, rasping his fingertips gently over the early-morning stubble. 

Blair nodded, whispering back just as quietly. "Yeah. He scared you, too." 

"Yeah," Brian murmured, biting his lip and looking away. 

"I said I was SORRY!" Stephen yelled plaintively from Brian's bedroom upstairs, followed by a muffled exclamation of pain, likely as a result of yelling with a headache that bad. 

"Stop eavesdropping and concentrate on your breathing, Stephen. I'll be right up," Brian sighed, as Blair smiled in faint amusement, his gaze dropping to Rafe's collarbone for a moment; he lifted a hand to rub the other man's smooth chest. God, he had nice skin. So soft. 

"That a laser pointer in your pocket or are you just liking me in mufti?" Brian smiled. 

Blair smiled back. "I'm liking you a lot, so you better go join Stephen before I get any more interested--it's a good sign he feels well enough to focus hearing on us, but he still shouldn't be alone; Gods know exactly what that headache means, he never had the overstimulation pains before..." Blair shook his head slowly, his expression distant. "Stay close to him. I don't want to think what might happen if he spiked right now. I'm going to crash in Stephen's room, just in case...in case you guys should need any more help tonight." 

"Think we should call Jim?" 

"Yeah, but morning's soon enough, as long as you can help Stephen get his head under control, and he doesn't get worse. Jim's beat. He needs some sleep." 

* * *

"Blair's car is dead," Stephen murmured over his oatmeal at the table the next morning. He still looked like shit and seemed barely conscious, but he'd said the worst of the headache was gone. 

"Huh?" Rafe said distractedly, turning from the blender, in which he was making Blair's algae shake; he'd been staring at the whirling froth, lost in thought. 

"I said Blair's car is dead." Stephen shoved in another spoonful of lightly sweetened oat mush. 

"Why?" Rafe wondered, having learned to approach questions like "How do you know?" at a tangent when it came to Stephen. 

"My car is dead?" Blair wondered, coming into the kitchen, stuffing his shirt into his pants. "Did one of you try it?" 

"No," Rafe said, eyeing Stephen. "Stephen said it was." 

"Oh, shit," Blair said, turned and ran for the front door, frantically buttoning his fly. They heard the heavy oaken door boomp softly closed behind him a moment later. 

"I heard something fall out of it earlier this morning, and it sounded like something crucial," Stephen said, answering Rafe's previous question. 

"Crucial how?" 

"I don't know. Just crucial." 

Rafe, completing preparations for his and Blair's breakfasts, didn't say anything. Stephen kept eating, slowly. 

In a couple of minutes, there was the soft whump of the double door closing, and a moment later Blair reappeared in the kitchen, holding a fried-looking object with crispy-looking wires hanging from it. "I found this hanging from the ignition system." 

"So much for _that_ solenoid," Brian murmured. "You've been hotwiring down there again." 

"Don't have a lot of choice--poor car's nickel-and-diming me to death, I gotta cut costs somehow," Blair muttered in disgust, looking for someplace to toss the deceased component. 

"Trash under the sink," Brian said. Blair went to dump the dead item as Brian began pouring algae shake. 

"I'll get the toast," Blair said quietly, moving for margarine, taking a pan of eggs off the stove on his way. 

They were both figuratively tiptoeing around Stephen, ostensibly in deference to his current crappy condition, but it didn't feel like trying not to provoke a soreheaded bear--it felt more like moving around a stack of very intricately and precariously balanced Ming china. It seemed that one bad step would send the whole priceless structure crashing to the ground. 

Mr. Ming suddenly lifted his head and smiled, drawing the attention of his tablemates at once. He blinked, head atilt, then laughed softly. His eyes came back into focus to meet theirs, and he said "It's Jimmy. He wants to know why I hauled your poor sorry ass out in the middle of the night, Blair. It's okay, Jim, I'm fine." 

"Where is he?" Rafe wondered, smiling a little. 

"He's pulling in." Stephen listened again, flushed and laughed a little, and said "I think we're being rude, Jim, Brian and Blair can't hear you." A pause, and he choked. "I'm not gonna tell 'em you said that." 

Brian and Blair looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Blair said "Jim, knock it off. We're trying to have breakfast here. There's fresh coffee, and toast and eggs if you haven't eaten." 

"He says great," Stephen said, smiling. He had another spoonful of oatmeal. 

They went back to eating. A minute later, they heard the front door again, and Jim came in, rubbing his forehead and yawning, gravitating directly to the coffee pot. He fished for a mug in the cabinet just to the left of it and said, "Okay, what happened?" 

"It was amazing, Jim," Stephen said, abruptly losing interest in his oatmeal, turning to face his brother. "I wish I could explain it more--hell, maybe I _can_ , if anyone could see it, it's you--maybe tonight we could head up to Salt Spring Pass and I can show you--" 

"Hold it there, cowboy," Rafe said, leaning over to pick up Stephen's spoon, stick it back in his hand and plunge the spoon-bowl back into the oatmeal. "Eat. You're not going anywhere tonight--for that matter, you're not going anywhere today. You need to call Grace and cancel any appointments you might have--" 

"Brian, I've got serious responsibilities. I won't go canceling appointments every time I--" 

"Use your senses to the point of passing out and giving yourself a migraine? The hell you won't." 

"What?!" Jim said in alarm, nearly slopping coffee as he turned. 

"Siddown, Jim," Blair sighed. "Have some toast. It's quite a story." 

* * *

"Brian's pissed," Stephen said softly as they gazed out the front parlor window, past the trees and hedges and the cobblestone walk, toward the drive, where they could see Blair's Volvo parked next to Jim's truck. Rafe and Stephen, fortunately, were parked on the other side of the semicircle. Both brothers were listening to the clipped, irritated conversation taking place as Rafe, under the hood, hanging over the engine, traded exasperated instructions with Blair, who was under the car. 

Jim rubbed the back of Stephen's neck warmly. "They both sound pissed. Anyway, it's Rafe's fault if he doesn't like it; he's the one who said he could use a spare solenoid he had to hotwire the Volvo into running again." 

Stephen, liking the neckrubbing, was squirming closer to Jim on the chaise. "Mmmm..." he nuzzled into Jim's neck and bit lightly. 

Jim grinned. "I've never asked--do you still do that? To people besides me, that is? You always used to bite my neck." 

"You used to make garlic jokes in bed." 

"And then you'd bite my neck again." 

Stephen made a little mirthful sound against Jim's trapezius and Jim grinned, wrapping both arms tightly around his brother and squeezing. Stephen squeezed back, rubbing and snuggling like he was trying to fuse them together. 

"Hey, you--I gotta go to work, here, you know." 

"Shut up, I'm busy." 

"You didn't answer me." 

Stephen lifted his head just enough to meet Jim's eyes. "I don't bite anybody else except Brian. He thinks it's cute--" 

"I do too, unless you were to get painful about it. Which you never have." 

"--but I suspect most of the people I've been with would have been a little put off." 

"Why's that? Most women like cute." 

"Not the women I've dated." 

"You know, some things you've said lead me to believe you deliberately dated women you wouldn't have any trouble breaking things off with." 

"Let's just say I used to be pretty misguided in my choices of love object." 

"Stephen..." 

"Hmmm?" Stephen wondered. 

Jim was trying to get hold of Stephen's hands. He was failing. "We're not gonna have sex on a couch in Brian's parlor at seven-thirty in the morning. At least not when I have to leave for work in a few." 

"You sound like you could be convinced otherwise." 

"Stephen..." 

"Yes, Jim?" 

"Now what are you doing?" 

Stephen stopped lapping at the soft skin just under Jim's ear long enough to whisper "I'm getting into you." He finished pulling Jim's shirt out of his pants and slipped his hand beneath it to caress Jim's chest and stomach, slowly. "Feel like getting into me?" 

"Oh God. I'm definitely starting to...Stevie, c'mon..." 

"C'mon, Jim...listen to my heart, the blood running through me...feel my breath..." 

Jim shuddered lightly. "Getting into" each other, like they used to do when they were younger, could mean anything from your basic cuddle to a mutual caressing session that usually wound up soothing them both into a total stupor (or leading to sex, depending on their mood of the moment, and whether it happened before or after they'd had their shower epiphany); but it had taken on a whole new meaning since both of them wound up with enhanced senses. The first time Jim noticed that, though, since they'd gotten back together as adults, Stephen's senses hadn't hit him fully yet--it had been up in the mountains, when they were making out and Stephen had to rattle Jim back into awareness to tell him they were being watched by a bear, though Jim hadn't been, exactly, zoned--more wrapped up in all five senses at once, focused on Stephen. Jim had worried about zones at first, but so far that hadn't happened. Not that either of them was aware, at least. Jim had still hesitated to mention this particular activity to Blair, though, suspecting that it would worry the hell out of his guide, and Brian, too. 

"C'mon, Jim..." Stephen lifted his head to gaze into his brother's eyes. "Just a little bit...we won't zone, I promise." 

"That's not what worries me." 

"Just a little. Here." Stephen disengaged a little, removing his hand from under Jim's shirt and getting them settled in a slightly less incendiary configuration, removing himself far enough to look easily into Jim's eyes. He reached over and took his brother's hand, saying "It'll help me get rid of the rest of this headache." 

Jim realized he was halfway there anyway, and lifted his free hand to caress Stephen's cheek. "Okay. But no humping on me. Like I said, I gotta go to work." 

"Deal. No humping." Their eyes stayed trained together as Jim inhaled deeply, scenting Stephen's warm body. 

* * *

"Okay, okay, I give." 

"I told you the damn thing was the wrong model." 

"Since when has that stopped you? I wouldn't be surprised to see a lawn mower carburetor wired in down there." Brian stood up, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "I gotta change clothes." 

"You could stand another shower, too." 

"Gripe, gripe, gripe. See if I try to rescue this heap for you again." 

"This car is a classic, Rafe." 

"Yeah, it's classic all right. C'mere." Brian held a hand out to Blair as the latter finished scooting out from under the engine; Blair clamped on to his wrist and Brian pulled him up. He gave Blair a fast peck on the mouth and said "I'll pick up a solenoid after work and we can fix it then. I don't want this thing cluttering up my driveway any longer than necessary." 

"You're all heart, Brian." Blair slung an arm around Brian's waist as they started back into the house. 

As they turned the corner into the open French doors of the parlor, Blair was saying "Looks like you'll have to drive me to--Jim?" 

Jim and Stephen were facing each other on the chaise in front of the middle set of windows; Jim's right hand and Stephen's left were loosely joined, fingers interlaced, and Stephen's other hand rested on Jim's chest, moving back and forth very slightly. Jim was stroking Stephen's cheek, slowly, intently; their eyes, while a bit glazed, were trained together, focused on each other. Jim's head was a little tilted, in his "listening" attitude, but he didn't seem any more focused on sound than on any other sense. Both of their mouths were just slightly open, and the deep expansion and fall of their chests seemed to indicate that they were breathing partly through them. 

"Shit. Zone?" Brian wondered. 

Blair just stood there a moment, then said, quietly and grimly, "I don't think so. You grab yours, I'll take mine." They went over to the chaise, Blair leaning down to grab Jim's shoulder, Brian going for Stephen. 

To their mutual surprise, Jim and Stephen looked up almost at once. "Yeah?" Jim wondered, "Hi. Didn't notice you. How's the starter?" 

Stephen just blinked in vague surprise. 

"What the hell was that, you two?" Brian demanded. 

"What was what?" Stephen wondered. 

"Uh...that. What were you just doing?" Rafe elaborated. 

Stephen looked away, vaguely embarrassed. "Just...getting into each other." He blushed a little. "We used to do it when we were kids." 

"You did, did you," Blair said thoughtfully, studying them both. "Just like that?" 

"No, we didn't have the senses, so it was just...well hell, it's not a zone, you know," Jim said defensively. "We're aware of all our senses." 

"Mm-hm," Blair said. "Brian, would you step out into the hall with me? You two--keep your ears to yourselves. And don't think we won't know if you don't." 

"But you won't," Stephen said impishly. 

Blair and Brian both glared at him, and he mock-cringed, inching closer to his brother. Jim reached over to pat him, saying "Okay, okay, no eavesdropping. But we both really hate it when you do this. Privy guide conference bullshit. What are we, children?" 

"No, you're sentinels, which is arguably worse," Blair said, dragging Brian out of the room by a beltloop. 

Once they were in the hallway, Rafe turned to him expectantly. "Yeah? What _was_ that?" he wondered. 

"I'm not sure," Blair said. "But I think I've seen Alex and Jim doing something like it. They...got all wrapped up in each other. They weren't zoning, but their senses were all trained exclusively on each other--it almost looked like some kind of a feedback loop, though I'm pretty sure that's all it did-- _look_ like a feedback loop. It might just look that way when two sentinels are concentrating on each other's...bodies like that, picking up and integrating all that information at once." 

Brian chewed his lip. "Is it dangerous?" 

"I don't know. Not like a zone is dangerous, if that's what you mean. Jim didn't get wrapped up in it enough to allow Alex to shoot me when she became aware enough of me to pull Jim's gun on me. He _did_ let her go instead of hauling her in, though." 

"I thought that was that mating imperative thing." 

"Yeah, that's what I thought, too. I still think so. Hell, Brian, I'm not sure what's going on. All I know is that what Jim and Stephen were just doing looked like something I've seen Jim and Alex do and I do NOT like that thought." 

"You're worried that if Stephen is...starting to manifest Alex-like tendencies--the clouds moving in the sky and like that--Jim might start reacting to him the same ways he did to Alex?" 

"I've been sure that Jim and Stephen are an entirely different circumstance to each other than Jim and Alex were--we've already talked about possible reasons Jim's territorial imperative isn't threatened by Stephen--and I still hope that's the case. I just..." he trailed off, looking pensive and deeply worried. He leaned against the wall, folding his arms. "Shit. God, I wish we had a bigger sample to work with, here. I don't feel safe predicting _anything_ with those two any more." 

* * *

"Well?" Blair wondered. 

"Well what?" Jim said, turning onto the freeway. 

"Well, what did you think?" 

"Of what? The fact that your car is dead in Brian's driveway?" 

"No, not my fucking car, your _brother_." 

"Stephen is dead in Brian's driveway?" 

"Jim, I know this is a lot to take in, but you're starting to piss me off. Brian and I need info, here, man, we need to know what you sensed, what you think, what you _know_ that we don't about Stephen. Anything could be important." Jim was quiet a moment. "You mean, did I sense anything...wrong?" 

"Or just anything unusual. You know the guy better than any of the rest of us, twenty years apart notwithstanding. How did he seem?" 

Jim snorted. "Hung the _fuck_ over." 

"Well, yeah," Blair said, mustering patience, "he was, in a way. Just imagine trying to pull off what he did, last night." 

"I just thought maybe...are you sure it couldn't have been...just some kind of a crosswind...?" 

"The cloud, maybe, at a stretch, though I doubt it--air temperature to dew point last night was such that the cumulus cloud base was barely off the ground; Brian and I know what we saw. The leaf? No way." 

"Actually what's bugging me a lot more is...I'm _not_ having that much trouble believing it." Jim shook his head. "You didn't know him as a kid. He's always been...well..." 

"Been what, Jim?" 

"Well...kind of...fey." 

"'Fey'? Did you say 'fey'?" 

" _You_ know," Jim groused. "A little bit magic." 

"Was he born under a caul or something?" 

"Blair..." 

Blair's amusement faded and his expression became intent. "Okay, so just how do you mean?" 

"You know," Jim repeated uncomfortably, "old stories. I did hear a few, even though my father's side of the family is something of an anomaly in terms of Irish immigrants." 

"I see. So...Stephen's always been a little bit fey--or, as Brian would put it, 'spooky'...?" 

"It's hard to explain. He's always had a way with people. Basically, if somebody didn't like Stephen, you shouldn't take your eyes off them, because _everybody_ liked Stephen and Gods alone knew what this individual might have to hide." 

"He could read people even as a kid?" 

"Yeah, but not like he does now, for God's sake. Talk about the downfall of the republic if he could have." 

"Or Stephen winding up in a mental institution." 

"Don't say things like that." 

"I'm sorry, I know you've been worried. So Stephen has always had an...ability, a way of connecting with people and situations." 

"Yeah, but it was more than that. For one thing, the little fucker could beat the shit out of me at cards by the time he was old enough to hold them." 

Blair bounced around in the seat, within the confines of his seatbelt, to face Jim. "Are you saying he demonstrated evidence of clairvoyance? Telepathy? What? Talk to me here, Jim." 

"I wouldn't go that far. It was just...Stevie. Just his way, you know. It never really occurred to any of us to remark that much on it, though Grandpa did call him a sidhe child more than once. Until Dad heard it and put a very unequivocal stop to that, of course." 

"But no one called _you_ that? Even with the senses?" 

"No, not me. I never had that thousand-light-year-stare that Stevie could get sometimes...closest I ever got to that was the occasional zone, but those didn't happen much when I was a kid...you've got that 'accessing' look. What are you thinking over there?" 

Only too happy to expound, Blair began "About geographically-based differences in sentinel folklore over the world, and related genetic differences. Think about it--Stephen didn't dream of the Temple of the Sentinels in South America, but he _did_ have a sense-related dream vision." 

Jim waited a moment, then prompted "Your point being?" 

Blair sighed. "Jim, think about it." 

"Start at the beginning for me, would you? This is your area, not mine." 

"Okay, okay. Consider the fact that it wasn't that easy to get around in the ancient world; that's the reason there are physical characteristics related to where your ancestors are from in the first place. It's entirely possible that sentinel abilities had different...different earmarks, different discernible genetic signs from one place, one culture, to another, one line of descent to another--or maybe just different interpretations of the same ones, though I think the first scenario's more likely. For example, you, Stephen and Alex are all of northern European ancestry for probably thousands of years back; yet you and Barnes both reacted to the temple..." 

"A lot of Northern European Americans--lot of African and Asian Americans too, for that matter--are at least part Native American." 

"Are you, as far as you know?" 

"Um, not as far as I know, no, but frankly I don't know much about my mother's side of the family." 

"So you might be." 

"I suppose." 

"And Barnes might have been. Which might explain why she could read that writing on the temple wall. And before you say anything, no, I don't mean the knowledge of a hieroglyphic script was actually included in her genetic programming--I'm thinking here about some pretty esoteric theories on the sentinel overmind, sentinel spirituality. The ones you always roll your eyes at me about when I bring them up." 

Jim rolled his eyes, predictably. "She was also high on some unknown local drug, which would have explained her being able to read chicken scratchings in the dirt, too--" 

"Didn't she have to read the writing to mix up the drink?" 

"You're going to take the word of a head case as gospel? And Stephen, like you said, dreamed of something other than the South American temple--but he and I both got our chromosomes from the same place. Why wouldn't _I_ have dreamed of you and the ocean and rock formations?" 

"Full siblings share fifty percent of their genetic patterns, Jim, that's all, and which fifty percent can be pretty random. There's plenty of room for Stephen to be reacting to his sentinel potential in an entirely different fashion from you--for there to be different associated traits and markers actually manifesting in him than in you, though it's true you probably both carry more than one set of tendencies." 

"You're really trying to say he's a sidhe child? Like...what...uh, like what the Milesians would have called a de Danaan?" 

Blair smiled. "I didn't know you knew anything about Irish mythology, Jim." 

"I don't, really. I just remember a few bits and pieces. Mostly from sitting with Grandpa before he died." 

"I don't know if I'm exactly saying that. But I'm saying people like him might have been called fey children, or whatever the particular term was at that place and time in Irish history. For all we know, this tendency he has to be able to read people *isn't* genetically connected with his senses, though it might be--though behaviorally, by now, it could easily be." 

"What does _that_ mean?" 

"Okay, listen. Maybe Stephen's senses did partially manifest before your trip into the mountains. Maybe the fey child thing was the form they took in him--at least, that was what it _looked_ like to everybody else, them not knowing anything about the sentinel aspect of it. Look at what he can do now, with the senses fully in gear. Maybe that 'fey' tendency he had, his ability to read people and situations, was an early form of partial manifestation. There have always been theories about people who are tuned into their surroundings more closely than the rest of us--that some people have the ability to detect and automatically process and interpret things that, if we even noticed them at all, would be meaningless to most of us. It's been used as an explanation for 'psychic phenomena' by skeptics for decades." 

"That 'subliminal-perception' stuff? It's got its own skeptics, doesn't it?" 

"Yeah, it does. The idea that there is a level of sensory perception below conscious perception that we all posses to one degree or another--well, that idea has, ever since its inception, been under attack by the camp who says it's ridiculous to postulate that we can sense things which we cannot sense, if you get me--that there is no reason to presuppose we can somehow be aware of anything that is measurably below or above our thresholds of sensory awareness, and no reliable ways to measure such a phenomenon anyway; and that the ways that _have_ been cooked up never showed a slant far enough beyond the random factor to use to form a hypothesis. But someone like Stephen--or you--might be able to pick up on those kinds of things, and integrate them into a useful whole, in a way that the rest of us can't. Stephen, if his senses manifested at a low level in childhood, would have learned to do that integration instinctively, the same way he learned to use the Doppler effect to instantly determine whether a car horn was moving toward or away from him, and jump out of the way, if necessary, even if he didn't see the car. Or that he learned to use depth perception to judge distances--to know at once whether an object was small and close or large and far away. It would be that basic to him, and it would have happened automatically, which might be why he has a hell of a time de-synergizing and isolating. Whereas you manifested fully in childhood, but remised, which gives you different strengths. That's just one theory, of course--" 

"Does this theory explain why he knew that the sound he heard early this morning was your fried starter solenoid hitting the driveway? Or, since he didn't even know it was the solenoid, that he knew that whatever the sound was, it meant your car was dead?" 

Blair was quiet a moment. "No, it doesn't explain that. But like I said, we're dealing with a lot of facets here. There could be other explanations for that. Whether you like the explanations or not." 

"And another thing. The subconscious integration thing. You said 'someone like you or Stephen', but if _I_ sense something, I sense it. I hear it or smell it or see it. It's there. It's not some...sneaking-in-under-conscious-perception thing, I _do_ sense it." 

"As far as you know you do, yeah. But like I said, that's you. Stephen is a close relative, sure, but even ignoring the possible early-habituation factor in his case, he's still a different guy with a different recombinant pattern. It may be another story with him. Like I said, look at the way he can't keep his senses from working in synergy sometimes, where you have the exact opposite problem--you can't _get_ them to work in synergy without deliberate effort, though you both do both things to some degree. And in both your cases, the senses are more effective if you can control that synergistic aspect, if you can use it when you want to and not use it when you don't." 

"Okay, let's say you're on the right track here, somewhere amidst all these...facets, all these theories. So then what? What does it mean for Stephen? Don't let this calm demeanor fool you. If he really did what the three of you tell me he did last night, I am shitting myself even as we speak, for half a dozen different reasons. Him hearing a faint plop on the driveway, probably at least half in his sleep, and automatically knowing it meant your car was dead isn't exactly leaving me sanguine, either, no matter what kind of fairy-dust tricks he seemed to pull as a kid." 

"Yeah, I'm getting there, Jim. My thought is this--if all sentinels are unique, or even if there are just a few specific different types, the key here is to get Stephen using his abilities in a _Stephen_ way...but it's up to us to find out what that is. See, back when, or even in any of today's societies that don't have lens-grinding technology and laboratories for chemical analyses and things like that, anybody with his abilities would have been too valuable to allow to pursue any other role than that of sentinel, watchman. That was the reason for guides like Brian, to supplement the abilities of a person with the senses, but without the other requisite abilities to be a sentinel. But in this milieu...well, you have that instinct, and in the modern world here, that instinct can easily be adapted for police work, or any of the other options we discussed when Stephen was getting that MRI. Stephen's situation is more complicated..." 

"...because Stephen is more complicated?" 

"Because Stephen's manifestation of the senses is not occurring with more traditionally expected accompanying traits, like it is in you. So yeah, his situation is more complicated. Burton might never have heard of people with enhanced senses serving the tribe in any capacity _other_ than sentinel, because, like I say, they'd have been too valuable to let go to waste doing anything else." 

"And so all this means, Darwin...?" 

"It means," Blair sighed, "that we are very nearly flying blind when it comes to Stephen. Burton wouldn't have been able to get any information on people with enhanced senses who did _not_ become sentinels, because, barring very serious physical or mental problems, they all would have; but not Stephen, not at this late date. Besides, there'd be no way to modify the occupation of tribal guardian to anything Stephen could reasonably be expected to do, because he'd need Brian, and I have a big picture of us trying to explain that to the authorities of whatever discipline in question." 

"I was afraid you were going to say that. But we've been in that situation all this time, haven't we? Between all of us, we're managing...aren't we?" His voice hardened as Blair hesitated. "Is there anything you're not telling me, Chief?" 

Blair shook his head. "Of course not, Jim. Anyway, he needs to be using his senses in his own work, in his business dealings, or however he feels it's appropriate. He needs to learn to _use_ the senses, but still be using them as _Stephen_. He didn't get the chance to ditch them like you did--and, going on what he heard from...from his vision, I begin to get an inkling about why. It's the way the senses are so bound up with everything else about him--the fact that he could have been manifesting them, in a way, all this time, in ways too subtle and complex to clearly define, so that they'd be an ineradicable part of him now. I hate to think what it might do to him now if he did lose them." 

"I think I see what you mean. If you're right, they...would touch every aspect of him." 

"More than that, he would have grown into being who he is with their presence, without even being aware of it. He might be unable to function without them now. Taking them away might be like pulling the main support walls out of a building--like suffering a traumatic head injury and...losing part of _himself_ , more than just losing a sense like sight or hearing." 

Jim was silent a moment, then murmured tightly "Have you talked about this with him?" 

"No, but I've talked about some of it with Brian. I'm not exactly sure how to bring it up with Stephen. I don't want to scare him, and Brian's worried about that, too. If Stephen panics over the senses, some really scary shit could go down with him, like it has with you, only substantially worse in his case. But I think all this may be part of the reason Stephen is getting, as Brian puts it, spooky on occasion. He needs to incorporate his senses more fully, now that they're manifesting fully. He can't follow around behind them wherever they lead, because God knows where the hell they'll take him--" 

"On top of a rooftop gazebo, singing to the wind, for one place." 

"No shit, man, case in point. Besides, Jim, it worked for you. You learned to use them by just using them, with me around to watch your back. There's any number of times you could have zoned, blissed out on taste or smell, hell--it's not impossible you could have become _addicted_ to the kind of pleasure they can bring you; and it's not impossible you could have relinquished control and let them take you to the same place Alex let hers take her. But you didn't. You owned them. Stephen needs to do the same thing; he just needs to do it as Stephen, not as a tribal watchman-cum-cop." 

They were quiet for a time. 

Finally, Jim murmured "You said once that you thought Stephen might be a shaman." 

Blair nodded slowly. "I think that...well, let's put it this way. If there was one non-sentinel occupation that someone with the senses could have felt the call to and been allowed to pursue, in the ancient world, it would have been...shaman, druid, oracle...priest. Whatever the functions filled or the name was, exactly. You get the idea. Stephen might have been...say, an arbiter." 

"You mean like a judge?" 

"There were several different types of druids in pre-Christian Ireland and Celtic Europe. One branch specialized in the law--in negotiation, arbitration, both inside the tribe and with outside parties." 

"That does sound like a job for Stephen. But it sounds like he'd have wound up a politician, instead of..." Jim trailed off, thoughtful. 

"Yeah, you see my point. There are a lot of ways an ability like that could go. Your senses and your instinct to protect could have ended you up as a cop, or any of the other things we've talked about before--like a rescue worker, especially a wilderness rescue worker, for one. There are all kinds of examples. Even your tribal protection instinct could have gone any number of ways." 

Jim was silent. 

"Was that something you loved about him?" Blair asked quietly. 

Jim blinked. "Hm?" 

"That he was a sidhe child. That he was a little bit magic," Blair elaborated softly, smiling. "Was that one of the reasons you felt so protective?" 

Jim was quiet a moment, then said softly "You see it, too, don't you? In him, I mean." 

"Sometimes, I've thought I have. I know I liked him almost from the start. That's one reason I was so gung-ho for you guys to start mending fences." 

"Mm." Jim sighed, almost--for Jim--wistfully. "Yeah, it was one of the things I loved about him. One of the things I wanted to protect, though I was never good enough with words to express it that way. I still love that he's magic. Yeah, I'm worried, but I can't help loving it." 

Blair just smiled tolerantly at him and retreated into his own thoughts. Jim let his mind wander. 

Magic... 

* * *

"Outta my way!" 

"No, you get outta _my_ \--" 

"Just c'mon." Jimmy grabbed his brother's violently shaking arm and they stumbled into the bathroom as a unit. "Turn the water on, turn it on, turn it on--" 

"I'm turning, I'm turning--" 

They were shaking so hard, and their fingers were so numb, that Jimmy didn't think they were ever going to make it out of their ice-rimed hockey uniforms. Stephen's lips were literally blue. Sally was going to kill them when she found out they'd staggered into the house through the back door and halfway down the back hall with their skates still on. 

Steaming water sprayed powerfully from the broad showerhead. Stephen started trying to get his laces undone; he couldn't, so he stuck his numb, red-and-bone-white hands into the water, ignoring the soaking his uniform was receiving. Knowing a good idea when he saw one, Jim followed suit. 

"I have never been so cold," Stephen chattered out. "We never stopped moving; how can I be this cold?" 

"Dunno," Jim said succinctly, and made another try at his skates. Once he got them unlaced, he did Stephen's, and they were able to get the rest of their cold-stiffened garments off after that. "But it was cold enough out there that our skates were sticking. And my hands burn like hell now." 

"Mine too," Stephen agreed as they stumbled into the broad, dark-blue-tiled stall and collapsed on the built-in bench that ran along the back wall, both of them still shaking like leaves. "Aim it this way," Stephen prompted, shoving Jim in the direction of the nozzle. Jim swayed to his feet against the wall and quickly jerked the shower head around to pour hot water directly across them both. 

Stephen said "I think it's too hot." 

"How can you tell?" 

"Because it feels cold and I'm turning darker red." 

"You're right." Jim reluctantly turned the cold water up higher. "How's that?" 

"Better. I can kind of feel my skin, almost." 

"It burns?" Jim collapsed to the bench again. 

"Tingle-burns, yeah. All over." Stephen leaned close, pressing his shuddering body to Jim's, wrapping an arm over his shoulders. Jim turned to him, arranging him as well as he could, but the exhaustion left by the cold and the exertion soon had him sliding to the floor where he could prop himself in the corner under the steaming water, pulling Stephen with him. They just stayed like that for a long while, breathing, the water cascading over them, dripping steadily from their hair and past their downturned faces. 

Despite his now-fading discomfort, Jim still loved being alone with Stephen like this, with a perfectly good alibi and total privacy. The burning remains of the cold and the echoing watery sounds of the shower were hypnotic; everything seemed distant and dreamy. 

He was very vaguely conscious of his body's reaction to his brother's proximity; he wasn't hard or anything, not yet, not with this kind of cold, of course. They both got hard sometimes when they touched, but everything was so easy between them, when they weren't putting on a show for the game, that it never occurred to either of them to be embarrassed. After all, everybody got hard from touching someone on occasion, even if you weren't really turned on--sometimes your body just noticed, even if you didn't, really. Anyway, they'd always touched when they were alone and safe, and winding up with the occasional woody because of it was nothing new, though it was a lot more noticeable a happening since they'd both hit puberty. 

There was a buzzing all around Jim, and a cottony numbness in his head, with a faint ringing in his ears. He turned his head a little, and his mouth pressed Stephen's water-darkened hair. He let the wetness the pressure squeezed from it trickle past his lips, hardly aware. Jim relaxed as his body continued to warm up, cold-stiffened muscles giving way to a deep lassitude. 

Stephen's head tilted back just slightly, making Jim's rock a little at the motion. He felt Stephen's mouth move against his cheek; kind of a kiss, almost more of a slurp, what with the slickness of the water on their skin, and the dazed feeling, the I'm-too-numb-to-think feeling. They were piled in the corner such that they didn't have to put forth any energy to remain in their jumble of long arms and legs. Jim felt conjoined with Stephen in that moment, in the dim peacefulness of the shower; he knew he and Stephen were experiencing all the same sensations--the lack of clear thought and the easy acceptance of that, the comfortable tiredness, the increasing appreciation of their contact as the cold and residual burning receded. 

Jim felt Stephen's hand moving, sliding across his chest, back and forth, making Jim's body, and Stephen's by extension, rock just a little, very slowly. It felt nice. Stephen lightly squeezed with the arm he had draped around Jim's neck, turning his head so that he could give Jim another slurpy kiss on the cheek, but closer to his mouth. Stevie was such a kissy kid...well, with Jim, at least. And anyway, Jim supposed he sometimes got a little more kissy than usual himself, especially when one of them was about to have to get up and go back to his own room. 

Jim's eyes were half-lidded. He let his head turn farther and rubbed his mouth very slowly against Stephen's cheekbone. He felt Stephen's lashes against his face; Stephen was all heavy-lidded, too. So relaxed. Jim lazily licked at the water that streamed down along Stephen's temple; it didn't seem like a strange thing to do. The water was making their smells and tastes very marked; Stevie smelled good, earthy with exertion and cold air. He tasted like blood, but without the iron tang. His body felt heavy and rich against Jim's, the muscled arm over his shoulders a sweet, lax weight. 

Stevie mouthed the words "I love you" against Jim's neck as his hand slid down Jim's ribs to rest against the bend where leg met body. The inside of his wrist pressed gently against Jim's soft, thick penis where it lay against his thigh. Jim let his head loll against the shower wall, thinking nothing, feeling everything. Stephen whispered "You feel good." 

"Mmm," Jim barely replied, knowing Stephen would hear his meaning anyway--I love you, you feel good too, I feel good right now...Stephen reached for Jim's arm and slid it across both their water-sleek bodies until it rested on Stephen's waist, and he managed to move them closer together, turning them so they faced each other, still moving so slowly. Jim felt like he could perceive every millisecond as it passed...every tiny, shallow breath, every drip of water, every beat of the pulse in Stevie's skin. There was time to examine each one in depth separately, before letting them easily go, and beginning to peruse the next...everything with that gentle, echoing slowness, deepness, fullness. 

Stephen's leg slid up, knee bending, over Jim's legs; his arm came farther around Jim's waist. He wanted closer. Jim let him move, shifting a little to accommodate him. They'd held each other while they slept or lay in bed talking, but they'd never done it naked. Jim wanted to do that naked. He wanted to be that close now, with the warmth and the softness of the water and steam making everything feel more real and sensitized. He wanted to lie here in the shower and feel Stephen, smell him, taste him. And Stephen wanted to do that with Jim. They both knew what the other was thinking, because they weren't thinking anything--but they were aware of everything. Their world had become this moment, this place, this fluid, wordless, echoing now. 

They were rubbing their faces gently together, Jim realized. It had started so subtly he hadn't exactly noticed. Stevie was mostly on top of Jim by now, his soft lips and tongue sliding across Jim's face. Jim nuzzled back, his mouth open, too. Stevie reached up and touched Jim's cheek with his fingertips and moved his mouth over Jim's. His tongue stroked his brother's, tasting. Jim gathered Stevie's mouth with his own, making a wet smack, a real, deep kiss, and then did it again. Or had Stephen done it? It didn't seem to matter. They kept on, tasting, caressing. Jim wondered why they'd never done anything quite like this before. Kissed, yes, all the time, but not like this. It was the sweetest sensation he'd ever experienced; it never even remotely occurred to him to compare it with date make-out sessions. He let one hand slide down and began stroking and kneading his brother's ass, gently and deeply. Stephen sighed into Jim's mouth and moved up even farther, and their bodies stretched out as Stephen came to rest on top of Jim. He kept kissing him, open and deep, as he moved; stroking the delicate softnesses between his own legs against Jim's, against the hollows of his flanks, against his lower belly, as he hardened, and Jim hardened. 

Then he slowed even farther, and lowered himself over Jim even more, so that their now-firm cocks pressed into each other's bodies, deeper, firmer still...Jim pressed back as they pushed, slowly, just pushing, not sliding, once...twice...again...Stephen shivered all over and his mouth slid from Jim's; the motion was so delicate and tender Jim didn't feel at all bereft as Stephen's face came to rest against Jim's neck. He nuzzled there, opening his mouth again to taste Jim's skin as they rocked together, beginning to slide again as well as push. Jim's gentle kneading of Stephen's ass continued, almost without conscious volition, as his hands satisfied their own need to fill themselves, satiate themselves, with his brother's flesh. And then, a moment, an eternity later, Jim felt his whole body gathering itself; even and steady the orgasm built, and then he was coming, in slow, delicious pulses; he let go and gave everything to Stephen, his heart opening, his soul pouring into his brother's in a smooth, powerful torrent, and Stephen gave everything to him, and they were both coming, totally vulnerable and totally unafraid. 

They lay still for a few moments. They were both making soft little moaning sighs, conversing, communicating things for which there could be no words, unmistakable. Then Stephen slowly, almost reverently, lifted his head and shoulders from Jim, so he could look down into his brother's eyes. He was smiling, his eyes dripping unheeded tears, his expression so sweet Jim felt his heart breaking with happiness, and he knew he looked just the same. Stephen's voice, when he spoke, was deep and sure and dark as a river. "I'm in love with you, Jimmy." 

"Yeah...I'm in love with you, too." His smile widened, and he laughed softly, never breaking their melting gaze. His voice held the solemn joy of a beautiful discovery. "We're in love, Stevie." 

There was a long silence as they regarded one another raptly. 

Then Stephen whispered "We'll love each other forever." 

"Forever." 

"Brothers." 

"And more. Always." 

"Oh, Jim...love you so much..." 

Jim whispered back, "Love you too...God. Stephen. My Stevie." 

* * *

*Hi, Stevie.* 

Stephen's head came up. "Hold on a second, Grace." He clicked the mute on the phone and turned down the sound on the datafeed. "Hi, Jim," he said softly, smiling into the distance. "Let me guess. You were just thinking about me." 

*Yes, I was. And since I was out, I thought I'd come say hi. Ran into Brian in the lobby; we're on our way up.* 

"Yeah, I heard his heartbeat a minute ago." 

*How did you know I was thinking about you...?* 

"Because a little while ago I was thinking about you, too. And I wasn't thinking the kind of thing I ordinarily let myself while I'm working on my appointment schedule with Grace. So I started listening for you." 

*Why does this not surprise me?* 

Stephen chuckled. "If we're going out for lunch or something, there are things I need to tie up around here. I've been on the phone and on the system all morning, but it seems like there's always someone more who heard I was back in the office and has to speak with me _now_. Frequently over a transoceanic satellite connection." 

*That's what you get for making yourself indispensable, aside from a shitload of promotions and a partnership in the company. I'll let you get to it; that rustling sound you hear is Brian yanking on my sweater, trying to get me to tell him what you're saying.* 

"I wonder if the same social rules that apply to phone conversations in company apply to this." 

*Since we're probably the only example of 'this' extant in the world at the moment, we can likely make our own rules. See you in a few. Brian, all he said was...* 

Stephen refocused his attention on the phone. "Sorry, Grace, I'm back...well, you tell me-- _am_ I free Thursday morning at ten? Good...okay, not good, Roszenko isn't worth talking to until after lunch, and he's still determined to blame Schroeder and me for the Carillon cartel withdrawal. Put him off, tell him I'm backlogged..." 

* * *

They headed for a local park; Jim bought lunch while Stephen and Rafe did their usual noontime sense-check and brief control-reinforcing meditation. 

"Well, we have to do _something_ ," Stephen was saying a bit later, around a mouthful of hotdog, doing his "You don't do as many power lunches as I have without learning to talk and eat at the same time in a presentable fashion" demonstration again. "This cruising all over town three or four times a day is getting ridiculous. None of us have the leisure for it, and people are going to start asking questions, if they haven't already." 

" _Have_ they?" Brian wondered. "At your end." 

"Indirectly. If you speak the language, yeah, they're asking questions at my end. My shit luck one of the partners lives just up the street from me, and that's not the only problem." 

Rafe sighed. "You're right, we can't keep crashing at each other's places forever; other people are going to notice." 

"Yeah. And Blair is going to be _dead_ before long at this rate. His obfuscational skills may be nonpareil, but he can't keep this up much longer. Have you listened to his body lately, Jim?" 

"When don't I?" Jim muttered. "But I don't know what else there is to do. Let's face it, you're not in the best position for this, Stevie. Maybe you should switch jobs. How about that idea you announced when you were eleven that threw everybody into a fit?" 

Brian looked questioningly at Stephen. 

"I said I wanted to be a choreographer," Stephen admitted. Brian snorted. Stephen thwapped him in the shoulder. "Shut up, you pansy." Brian just grinned and kept eating. 

Jim laughed too. "That was kind of shot out of the water when he found out that you had to dance with _girls_ \--in whom he didn't start to get interested until a year or two later," Jim asided to Rafe. "What brought the choreography thing on, anyway? All that musical theater? I asked you at the time, but you didn't express yourself very well." 

"If by that you mean I told you to screw off because you'd laughed your ass off at me, you're right, I didn't. It was because I liked the symmetry of the movements, or I thought I would. We were learning to skate for hockey about that time, remember? The...predictability of the patterns--angle one way and turn, build up so much momentum to carry you around a curve, tilt your weight just so far in a certain direction to spin-stop..." 

"So you thought it was that kind of movement you liked in particular, when it turns out you were really in love with kinetic physics," Brian surmised. 

"Call me a sucker for the science of moving bodies. The...the whole predictable, dancelike pattern of all the aspects integrating. Music is the same way. The factors that come together, if you know how to bring them together, to create a single phenomenon..." 

Brian gazed speculatively at him. Stephen pretended not to notice. 

Rafe sighed and gave in. He looked away from Stephen and said "By the way, Jim, speaking of music, why didn't you tell me this guy could sing? He hit a high C the other day while I was cleaning my gun, I dropped it, and nearly ruined a pair of wool suit slacks. Gun oil doesn't really wash out, you know." 

"I told you, you should have changed into jeans," Stephen shrugged. 

Jim said neutrally--he didn't really know how to take that news, considering the night on the roof-- "You singing around the house again? I thought you said you...gave it up, after I..." 

Stephen smiled. "After you left. But I've been feeling inspired lately, you might say." 

"He sure has, judging by the evidence," Rafe muttered around his hot dog. 

"I think I can understand that," Jim said, managing a smile. 

"I just bet you do," Stephen winked. 

"So you used to sing a lot?" Rafe asked. 

Jim answered. "Yeah, he did. When Blair asked me if Stephen might have any kind of neurological disorder, I mentioned to him how sometimes he--well, this happens to a lot of people--he'd wind up with the blood pooled in his legs, standing on the risers, and pass out. He was in all the choral groups, did a lot of solos. And he sang in church. The musical director practically went into mourning when his voice started to change; she hadn't had a boy soprano with a voice that pure to work with in years." 

"Doesn't sound like it's changed _that_ much." 

Stephen swallowed hot dog. "I'm a _tenor_ now, okay?" He took another bite, talking around it this time. "Although usually, when a soprano's voice changes, he loses a lot of that clarity--turns in to some class of baritone, like most men. I can sing baritone, but I'm actually a tenor." 

Brian just gazed speculatively at him a moment, then went back to his hot dog. 

"I don't know," Stephen said softly, glancing briefly at Jim. "Maybe so." 

Jim winced. "Do you really have to do that?" 

"I can't help noticing things like that when *he's* around," Stephen explained, gesturing to Brian, who was now drowning his fries in ketchup. Stephen watched this, making a face. "Gross, Brian." 

"This way nobody steals my fries," Brian shrugged, and slurped one down. 

"You know, this traffic problem we've been having," Jim said, "it _is_ worse than we expected it would be once we managed to get Stephen to the point we could separate the two of you at all. I think we all figured Stephen would just go on getting more independent, but it's not working like that." 

"You're not totally independent of Blair," Stephen pointed out. "Being married aside." 

Jim shook his head. "Blair and I kind of lucked out. Since it didn't work that way with us, we didn't think about what a disaster it would have been if Blair *hadn't* been able to be on hand for me so much of the time when my senses first came back on line." 

"You think he would have moved in with you even if his place hadn't blown up?" Brian said. 

"Well...yeah. At the time I would have made a major stink about it, but probably after the four dozenth middle-of-the-night emergency phone call--or worse yet, the call coming from Simon after the neighbors called 911--Blair would have insisted," Jim finished in a mutter, taking a bite of hot dog. He chewed a moment, then continued "Later, it would've been more like what we're dealing with now; it's not so much I'd have needed him in the same house twenty-four-seven as the more general availability factor. In any case, you're right. I could function without Blair now. I'd rather not, and Simon and Blair would also rather I not, but I can. It took years to get to that point, though." 

They munched quietly for a bit. 

"I know it is," Stephen murmured. Jim looked up and realized his brother was talking to Rafe, who was looking uncertainly at Stephen. 

Rafe said, almost diffidently, "I know what a hassle it would be, likely for both of us, but it's always an option." 

Stephen looked over at Jim. "My moving in to his place," he explained. 

Jim drummed his fingers on the table, pondering. "You're not even out at work," he said, in a tone of contemplation rather than one of protest. 

"I know," Stephen sighed. "Explaining that I'm leaving my own new four-bedroom place in Stonebridge Down to move into a Victorian off Greycoast would be hard enough to justify if I were doing it on my own, though I could do it. That said Victorian belongs to an attractive young male Detective who's at least semi-out will pretty much clinch it for my partners, and everyone else I work with, that Ellison Hasn't Told Us Everything," Stephen concluded. "There just is no cover story for that that wouldn't be worse than the truth." 

"You'd know more about that than I would," Jim admitted. 

Rafe offered "Well, if you do decide to go with the idea, I've got your office picked out. The upstairs parlor do for you?" 

Stephen's face lit up. "The room with the stained glass windows?" 

"Only if you promise not to make me drag you out of a zone on them every day." Rafe's smile was suspiciously smug. 

"No! I mean, sure. I mean, thanks--hell." Stephen put an arm around Brian and kissed his cheek. Brian nearly inhaled his current fry. "Stephen!" 

"Nobody was watching." 

"How do you--never mind," Brian said, shaking his head slowly. "I know how you know. Can you do that, Jim?" 

"Not like he does it. Not like...breathing," Jim said. "Blair says that there are advantages and disadvantages to both our...what'd he call it...manifestations of the genes. He says Stevie's more sensitive, because even though his senses aren't more acute than mine, they operate at a higher level of interactive complexity than they do in me or Barnes. But that also makes him more delicate, which is another reason he needs a guide who kicks ass for a living; he'd naturally be spending a lot more time than I do in some kind of vulnerable state." 

Stephen looked briefly chilled, as usually happened when his "S.B.R. period" as he called it--Senses Before Rafe--came up, even if only obliquely. Jim reached across the table to cover his brother's near hand with his own as Brian touched his back lightly. Stephen shook off the chill and wondered "So where's Blair? Work, I guess?" 

"He has staff meetings from hell all day, according to him." 

Stephen said "I don't care what Blair says about it, I think I'm going to give him an early birthday present and get that car of his worked on. After all, it's on my behalf that he's running it--and himself--into the ground. He can drive my Mustang until his Volvo is out of the shop." 

Jim grinned. "I'll steal his keys tonight." 

* * *

>Pt. Two: "You Always Keep Me Guessing; I Never Seem to Know What you  
are Thinking"

* * *

Rafe's phone rang. He picked it up. "Major Crimes, Rafe." 

"Brian, where the hell am I supposed to go?" 

"I've gotta take just a moment and caution you that it's not wise to call up a tired, exasperated cop near quitting time and ask him where you should go, Blair--" 

"Dammit, you know what I mean. I've hardly slept in a week and I'm seeing things and tell me where the hell I'm supposed to be tonight or I'm just going to go home and pass out." 

"Okay, okay--my place." 

"Right. I don't know when I'll be there, though. You aren't going to kidnap my car again, are you?" 

"Only if it's acting up on you again." 

"It's purring like a kitten. So stay away from it. How's our guys?" 

"Jim's frowning at a Forensics report--he just looked over and winked, he must be listening. He's fine. As far as Stephen goes..." Brian sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Fine last I spoke with him. I wish I could say for sure. Nobody's called Jim from the hospital, and I don't have the heebie-jeebies or anything. Not beyond what I normally do when he's out of my reach, anyway. I called him about three hours ago. He was supposed to call me, but he was late..." 

"I'm sure he's fine, Brian," Blair said soothingly. "I was just wondering." 

"By the way, about tonight--you and Jim know you both can always stay over if your schedule's getting too punishing; my place is about equidistant with yours from the U, so if you're too tired to drag ass to the loft, just make yourselves at home. You might as well, considering I've still got that bale of your laundry in my utility room, and about half your bathroom crap in the upstairs hall bath." 

"Good thing. Once I get there and sit down, I may not be able to move again for anything short of fire, flood or earthquake. Getting caught up?" 

"Slowly. H is delighting in making me pay for all the single-handed work he had to do for weeks. Banks and Connor are watching me like hawks. Do they expect me to have some kind of Stephen-based crisis?" 

"They probably think you've been doing your usual postpone-my-own-crisis-until-the-main-crisis-is-over strategy, Stephen's life being in the balance there for a while, and wonder when the fallout is going to hit you. Don't forget, they did see the backlash after the Gunderson building shootout." Blair referred to an occasion several months earlier, when Rafe had found himself--due to the unexpected presence of a third shooter--the sole source of cover for a hemmed-in team of his old pals from SWAT, and ended up without cover himself in the middle of a three-way shootout, in order to pick off the roof-mounted shooter in question before the team wound up nailed by fire from the opposite side. "At least twenty seconds you were out there," Blair muttered in recollection. "The only part of you that even twitched was your gun hand when you took aim. But then later that night, at Frohike's..." 

"That beer-induced state of delirium everyone saw that night was in reaction to what Simon did to me after he took me in his office and closed the blinds, _not_ to getting myself caught in the open during the shootout." 

"Let's see; I _know_ he didn't tear you a new one--or else it's healed since the last time I saw you naked--so what'd he do instead?" 

"Made me remember why it hurt so much worse when my parents cried because of my misbehavior than it did when they yelled at me. I don't mean he cried--" they both chortled, "--I mean that there I was, near pissing in my boots, totally expecting to get my hair blown off and my eardrums perforated by Monsoon Banks, but then...well, he muttered something about why does he get all the crazies in his unit, then started in with the 'Rafe. Rafe, Rafe, Rafe...son, _what_ am I gonna do with you?' Guilt out the ass about how badly maverick tactics could endanger the rest of my team and he knows I know better and why do I keep putting him in this position...well, it sounded a lot more official than that, but that was the idea. God, he's a master. He knows what works with all of us." 

"Ouch. He's done that to me, too." 

"Yeah, but it's reasonable with you, see, because you're--" 

"--not a cop, I know, I know...one thing you had to be thankful for; the hearing for the shootings took about ten minutes. And most of that was the panel members arguing amongst themselves--that one who thought you were just some kind of pathologically fearless nut who could turn into a loose cannon and shouldn't be encouraged, and the group that wanted to recommend you for a citation for bravery above and beyond in defense of fellow officers, etc." 

"Hm. Ellison was listening to that, was he?" Brian glanced over at Jim, who, apparently still paying attention to the conversation, looked up at him again and smirked. Brian rolled his eyes at Jim, and, in an obvious attempt to change the subject, said to Blair "By the way, Stephen and I are cooking tonight; should we keep something warm for you if you're late or just assume you're pulling an all-nighter?" 

"Depends. What are you making?" 

"Also depends. Stephen, last time we spoke before lunch, was holding out to try that new Vietnamese recipe you showed him. Jim and I are thinking that if we double-team him, we might be able to get him to go for grilled steaks and baked potatoes." 

There was a pause. 

"Screw it. I'll be there at seven either way." 

Rafe grinned, chuckling. "Thought you might be, cute stuff. You work too hard." 

"Ordinarily I'd spout some line about that being the lot of a grad student, but after the last couple of months my only response is a resounding 'no shit'. You and Jim keep your skins intact. See you tonight." 

"The worst either of us is risking today is paper cuts and death by copier ink fumes. Later, Blair." 

As he hung up, Jim called across the room "Hey, Rafe--I was about to call Stephen. You want to talk to him?" 

"I've gotta run down to records. If you're still on when I get back, yeah, I'll talk to him." 

Jim dialed. 

Stephen picked the phone up before the first ring could finish and said, with an audible grin in his voice, "Hi, you sexy thing." 

Half major crimes turned to stare as Jim's--fortunately near-empty--coffee cup hit the floor, spewing brown dregs and shattering into a million pieces. 

"You okay?" Stephen asked, not a hint of repentance in his cackling voice. 

"How the hell did you know--" 

"You were thinking about me again, weren't you." 

"Well no shit, I was about to ca--" 

"You know what I mean. Which is probably why I knew it was you before it even rang. Will wonders never cease--'I believe in miracles--where are you from, you sexy thing, sexy thing, you...'" 

"Stevie," Jim managed to get out over Stephen's demented laughter at his own goofiness, "this is crazy. Your...you can't possibly have...figured it out the way we do." 

"Then maybe it's not the senses. Maybe it's something else. Aren't there a lot of cases of family members being psychic together?" 

"Not so freaking damn casually, no, usually one of them's in the process of being killed, or at least of something a bit more traumatic than a coffee break. Except for a few cases of twins I've heard of." 

"What's Blair call it? Psychic love connection. 'Baby, when I think about you, I think about loooooove...'" 

"Oh, for--if you don't quit singing scary seventies tunes--and laughing like a hyena--I'm hanging up." 

There was a sexy pout in Stephen's voice as he purred "Oh, _Jim_ my, you wouldn't hang up on your loving--exceedingly loving--baby brother. Hold me down and spit in my mouth, maybe--" 

"Stephen, I am asking this in all seriousness. Are you high?" But he was grinning, and damn it, he knew Stephen knew it. 

"Just on life. I _like_ it when you think that stuff about me. Unless I'm in a meeting. Then it's distracting as hell. Were you just calling to check in? Tsk. I swear, between you and Brian it's a wonder I get anything--" 

"No, actually, I _did_ have a reason to be doing this, thinking about you or not. You wanted a heads-up on the security for the mayor's ball next week? Rafe and I are on that--much to our chagrin--so we can keep you updated." 

"That's something. Schroeder has been all over my case about it, wants to know what kind of security we'll be needing to provide for ourselves. As if we don't have a whole damn department that handles that kind of thing. He only stuck _me_ with it because he knows you're my brother. Next he'll be yelling for me to fetch him his morning coffee and croissant. I fought my way to this level of the company, leapfrogging over Harvard MBAs, for _this_?" He cracked up again. 

Trying to get the rather embarrassing visual of Stephen in a business suit leapfrogging over a line of other guys in business suits out of his head, Jim pointed out "You don't exactly sound like it's ruined your day. Are you feeling okay, Stevie?" Simon had paused by Jim's desk, eyebrows raised at the nearby mess in the floor. "Uh, listen, my captain is giving me the would-you-care-to-explain-this expression; I'd probably better go..." 

"I'll be counting the minutes, you seething hunk of delicious manflesh." He could barely keep his face straight long enough to get the last word out before he burst out laughing again and Jim slammed the receiver down on the desk and collapsed next to it, shoulders shaking with effort to contain laughter, fear, or both. Stephen's own fit of mirth was more than voluble enough for Jim to hear. 

Though Simon evidently couldn't. "Let me guess; that's either the Public Defender's office or IA." 

"No, it's my--" he raised his voice to bark at the phone receiver where it still sat on the desk, "-- _shitbag_ of a brother!" 

Suddenly Rafe leaned over past Simon's shoulder and picked the receiver up. "Stephen, this is your guide speaking," he murmured, too softly for anyone but Simon and Jim to overhear. "Are you shall-we-say _teasing_ your brother?" He dropped his voice even farther, an almost nonexistent whisper. "And don't think I can't tell. I know what it means when a guy in fitted slacks scoots right up to his desk, like Jim just did, and hangs on with both hands." 

"Whoops. Got me. I can't help it. You've been 'shall-we-say' neglecting me." 

"Don't make excuses. I've been on stakeout." 

"Now who's making excuses?" 

"Quit giggling, you sound like a three-year-old," Rafe sighed. "I know you've been a little... euphoric lately, but people are going to think you're stoned. And I can hear your desk chair creaking in rhythm, which probably means you're doing chair twirlies." 

Stephen was still cracking up. "Ooh, he's a detective all right." 

"I'd ask if you're feeling okay, but in the face of the overwhelming evidence of your current status, I'll just say 'see you tonight'. Listen, Stephen...look out for yourself, okay? And be sure to call me if...if you need anything. At all. No unnecessary risks? Of any kind. Love you." 

"I'll be okay, Brian," Stephen said, his voice softening for a moment. "See you tonight. Looking forward to it." 

"Thanks for trying," Jim muttered, taking the phone back with a half-grimace. Blue eyes locked with hazel as the two detectives exchanged the telepathic message "Definitely spooky." 

Rafe took a breath and turned to deal with Simon. "Somebody must've fed Stephen caffeine over lunch. He was just yanking Jim and me a little." 

"What was that little bit you so cleverly made it impossible for anyone but a sentinel to hear?" Simon wondered in an amused undertone. 

"Just some mushy stuff." As Simon rolled his eyes, Rafe mustered a grin, reminded him "Hey, you asked," and headed for his own desk. 

"It's never a good idea to piss off your guide, Stephen," Jim said. 

"He's just jealous because his brother isn't a hot, world-class hunk like mine is." 

Jim hid his eyes behind a hand, stifling a groan. "I'll be sure to tell Ron you said that next time I see him. Gotta go, kiddo. I'll be killing you later tonight." 

"Oh, _baby_ ," Stephen moaned, laughed at Jim's exasperated exhalation, and added, softly and sincerely, "I love you, Jimmy." 

Jim's amusement/wrath/fear instantly melted. "Um, Stevie...I'm not...you know..." 

"...alone, I know, and just say it--I'm your _brother_ , for Christ's sake, you're allowed to tell me you love me! We're allowed to hug in public, too, FYI. Even kiss as long as we don't get carried away. There _are_ advantages to having your brother as a lover." 

Jim stifled a laugh in his free palm. "Good point. I love you too, Stevie. I'll see you tonight." 

"Kiss kiss." Stephen emitted a parting snicker and hung up. 

Jim set the receiver back in the cradle and rested his forehead in one hand. 

Simon wondered "Mind if I ask what brought on the ceramic disaster in the floor here? Not bad news, I take it." 

Jim sighed and got up. "Not exactly. He just knew who it was when he picked up the phone. And he doesn't have caller ID on the phone in his private office; that's what secretaries are for. Only maybe half a dozen other people have the code for a direct line to his desk phone, so I guess it isn't that remarkable he might guess it was me--except for the fact that he answered with...uh...a pet name. And the other people who have his direct code--except for Rafe--aren't people he'd want to be calling that." 

"Pet name?" 

"Yeah. Um, from when we were kids." 

"What pet name?" 

You asked for it, Simon...Jim smirked. "Shitbag." 

Simon chuckled. "Little brothers. I guess they never do quit tryin' to yank your chain, do they? By the way, in case I've never said so, I think it's great that you guys are so close after everything you've been through. I mean, a lot of people say that friends you pick and family you're just stuck with, but I think that kind of makes the point. He's the only sibling you're ever gonna have. You're lucky as hell to love each other so much after everything that's happened." 

"Yeah. I've thought of that, too, Simon." Jim stood up from where he'd been mopping coffee with his handkerchief. "It's about the only thing that could drag me into his shrink's office twice a week." 

"I'm _still_ tryin' to get over _that_ piece of news." Simon shook his head, remembering his reaction to hearing that Jim was voluntarily--well, all right, semi-voluntarily--seeing a shrink for any reason whatsoever, even though it was supposed to be primarily for Stephen's sake. 

"So am I," Jim sighed, and went for the broom and dust pan. 

As he was coming back from the utility closet, Rafe, talking over his shoulder to somebody, was coming the other way; he finished his conversation just as he reached Jim, casually snagged him, and they edged around a corner. 

Jim hissed in the other man's ear "Brian, what the fuck was that?" 

"I was about to ask you the same thing. Does he _get_ silly like that at work? Did he used to?" 

"No way in hell," Jim said grimly. "I don't know if I hope he came down off whatever that was before he wound up confronted with...hell, with anybody at all that he might see in his office, or if it would scare me even more if it turned on and off like that." 

"That occurred to me, too." 

"Listen, you're his guide. Maybe if he were with you more..." 

Rafe looked agonized. "Don't say that to me, Ellison, you don't know how I'd _kill_ to be with him more if we could arrange it..." 

"Then we've got to arrange it. Some way or other. Unless we want Stephen singing 'here we go loop-de-loo' for the rest of his fucking life." 

"We don't know he's doomed to that. Maybe this is a stage." 

"And maybe it's not." 

Rafe sighed. "I know. Christ, for all we know, the way he uses his senses--or maybe I should say the way the senses are using _him_ \--is addling his brain, and I'm the only thing keeping it in check. Man, you and Sandburg sure lucked out." 

Jim nodded, touching Rafe's shoulder lightly. "Yeah, we did. The way you mean, at least. I guess we'll just have to make some of that kind of luck for you and Stephen." 

* * *

In the kitchen at Brian's place that evening, Stephen clicked off and tossed the cellphone on the table, slumping in a chair there. 

Brian came back in, out of his work clothes and in a white tee shirt and a pair of soft, old blue jeans; but rather than looking like some schlep in his kicking-around-the-house clothes, he rather resembled an escapee from a photo shoot for a fashion spread called "Casual Allure". 

"Ready to man the grill whenever you...uh, oh." He came the rest of the way through the long kitchen and stopped in front of Stephen, dropping to a squat in front of him in order to get a look into his downturned face. "Your mood of this afternoon appears to have evaporated completely. Bad news?" 

Stephen was drumming his fingers on the table, eyes closed. 

"You're in problem-solving mode, I can see it," Brian said, letting a trace of his calming voice filter past the half-smile he had acquired. "Who are you trying to make happy now?" 

"All of my partners, about one thousand book-binding workers, the owners of a South American natural-latex production company, and everybody else who would be hit by Martin Publishing losing such a big part of its supply import quota for the next quarter...and me." 

"Martin Publishing? Oh, your Martin." 

"It's one of our subsidiaries." 

"I never cease to be amazed by the tentacle-like reach of big business. Okay, what's the problem, and it's your responsibility in particular for what reason?" 

"When a trade embargo screwed things up with one of the regular suppliers, our negotiators went down to Brazil to set up a temporary contract with the Para rubber tree ranch mogul in question. They couldn't get anywhere. Martin sent me down to, as he put it, do the voodoo I do. So I did." 

"And got the contract settled to everyone's satisfaction, naturally," Brian smiled, moving to sit in a chair near Stephen's. 

"Yes, fortunately." 

"Why Martin sent you, no doubt." 

"I think it's more like, he sent me because he thought it would be a mark of our respect and interest to send a partner in the parent company to the table--but sending a senior partner might be construed as desperate ass-kissing, so he sent me." 

"Uh-huh." Brian's expression indicated how large a chunk of salt he was taking that modest assessment with, but he only added "So go on." 

"So the contract's due to lapse after this quarter, and the owners want me to come down and write up the new one with them." 

Brian made a slight face. "Ooh. When?" 

"There's not much time. It'll have to be soon. If I push it past three weeks it's going to look insulting to our supplier." 

Brian bent a knee and braced his heel on his chair seat, resting an arm on that leg, considering. "So I guess you're having trouble getting the senior partners to send someone else." 

"Well, yes. Before I go into detail, let me remind you that traveling has always been a big part of my position. We've talked about that." 

Brian nodded. "But in this case? Can you plead weakness left over from your bout with Marah's syndrome?" Which was what they had been calling Stephen's fictional neurological ailment, ever since Stephen's friend Marah Simmons gave her spiel to Stephen's partners, and cowed them into not asking any questions when Stephen had needed an open-ended and completely undisturbed hiatus from his duties when his senses hit. They still hadn't decided on the best way to pay her back for that. Nothing really seemed adequate. 

Stephen shook his head. "I could, but I *can't*." 

Brian's eyes narrowed. He shook his head minutely in puzzlement. 

Stephen got up and started pulling things out of the fridge and the freezer. "When I say 'owners' I'm talking about an association of the sort of companies and top dogs that you don't want to press too closely as to where they got their starting capital, or how they manage to continue business when those trade embargoes have put most of the other similar material suppliers out of the running for sales to the U.S." 

Brian's eyebrows went up. 

"I detect your spidey senses tingling," Stephen said, with a fond smirk in Brian's direction, "but you can relax. We may occasionally suspect the companies we're dealing with of being smoke screens, even if not actual fronts, but there's no evidence to back it up, as far as we know. The companies in question are legit, no matter the other subversive activities of those who run them." 

Brian shrugged. "So you're working with a supplier that may or may not be dealing in something else which may or may not be illegal." 

"Well, that's the oversimplified version, but yes." 

"And the problem is? I mean, you have negotiated with their people successfully before, right?" 

"That's right-- _I_ negotiated successfully before, because the people we pay to do things like basic contracts got tossed out on their collective ear." 

"I take it you can't get another supplier." 

"Oh, sure we could--ordinarily, we have a list of contenders. But it's definitely their market right now, with the embargoes in effect. We could do it, but it would take enough time and enough intercorporate palm-greasing, not to mention the loss of bargaining-table cojones stock, that the yearly budget would take a nasty hit--not an unworkable one, certainly, but it'd be messy. Plus the time involved would throw the timetable straight to hell, and the companies that MP supplies could collect a substantial breach-of-contract fee when Martin Publishing didn't deliver product on time." 

"Sounds expensive." 

"It would be, make no mistake. But MBE would only have to roll with it; losses of that volume, especially for these kinds of reasons, have to be planned for. It's a constant possibility in the business world." 

"I may be a bit shortsighted here, but it seems to me your life is worth more than a multinational conglomerate taking a very minor bloody nose for a single quarter...hold it." 

Stephen's eyebrows went up expectantly from his position by the counter, where he was idly flipping a large, scary-looking, mallet-shaped meat tenderizer in one hand like a juggling pin. 

Rafe sighed. "You said...one thousand..." 

"...uncontracted bookbinding workers," Stephen said, "most of them unskilled or semi-skilled labor. That's about how many--including the non-industrial office workers, janitorial staff, and whatnot--would be laid off within Martin Publishing proper as a result of this particular bloody nose, most of them with little hope of being rehired any time within the next few years. Yeah, MBE can handle it, and cushion the blow to a small degree; but Martin Publishing would have to take some pretty drastic steps. That would only be one of them." 

"But why only you? Sure, they like you down there on the rubber ranch or whatever, but if you tell them you're too sick to travel that far yet, why can't one of your blasted partners do it? They might lack your undeniable charm, but they've got more rank than necessary to impress these guys, the way you told it." 

Stephen was staring at the thawed steaks he'd laid out on wax paper, then bouncing the tenderizer in his hand, then looking back at the steaks. 

"Sir," Brian said in his best placating, hostage-negotiating voice, "why don't you just take a deep breath, and put the tenderizer down. I'm sure you don't want anyone hurt here; so far all you can be tried for is thawing with intent to marinate." 

Stephen looked up at him and they exchanged a grin. Stephen chuckled, and Rafe got up and came over to him. "Easy, there..." he covered Stephen's hand with his and gently pushed the tenderizer down to rest on the counter, halting the progressively more violent nervous flipping; then he took Stephen's hand. "We'll figure this out." 

Stephen shook his head. "I don't see how." 

"Tell me the rest. Why only you?" 

"That's the real kicker for me--but then, it always is," Stephen snorted in annoyance. "Get this. The relevant person--only willing to negotiate with me--is a guy named Enrique Esquivel." 

Brian's brows went up. "Not what you could call a crime figure, but yeah, I've heard of him, I think. A little wacko, isn't he?" 

"More than a little. He has some kind of delusion--at least, I'm hoping it's a delusion and not spillover from his below-board 'business' activities--of being one of those central-American dictators we had to stop giving money to because they kept killing their own people with it; the half-genteel, half-nun-beating variety. The whole time I was there, wandering around the grounds and plantings, sipping various oversweet liqueurs and undersweet high-priced tonsil solvent, wishing my Spanish was as good as his English so I could keep better track of what was going on, explaining, describing, looking over my shoulder at all the big guys in dark suits who always seemed to be around--even in the offices where we conducted the meetings..." 

"The whole time you were there, you were nervous?" 

"No. The whole time I was there, I was grossed out! At myself." 

"I don't get you, Stephen." 

Stephen wandered off and leaned against the sink, thinking. "I'm proud of how good I am at what I do. I'm proud of how hard I work to give a good deal to the companies and people we deal with, and I'm proud of how hard I work to protect our employees. I'm not sorry I do what I do." He opened his mouth, broke off, and turned to stare out the window over the sink into the expansive back yard. 

Brian came up behind him and put his hands on Stephen's shoulders. "Most of the time, you mean." 

"Yeah," Stephen muttered. "Most of the time. Get this. I know for a fact he doesn't want me down there just because I was some kind of pushover he managed to get a sweet deal out of. I came out of there with a contract not much less in our favor than the preliminary opening proposals our negotiators had first gone down there with, and you know how inflated those are." 

"Like buying a car," Brian smiled. "Start high. Or low, depending on which side you're on." 

Stephen smiled too, his head dropping a moment, before he looked back up at the greenery outside. "Something like that. No, he likes me, Brian. He makes my skin crawl, and the guy likes me so much he calls me on my birthday and Christmas. He sent me an invitation to his daughter's confirmation. He drops me notes to ask about my family, how they all are--and I of course have to send replies, because we don't want to offend the guy--some of that is cultural, and I don't have to tell you that even here business associates often maintain a semblance of actual friendship; it's just good business. But in this case...Brian, this guy is the Godfather with a different accent and cleaner account books! Trust me. You don't know him. He's not really my point anyway--see, the worst of it is, he's not the only one." 

Brian frowned. "Not the only one?" 

"The only less-than-savory character--and I'm being really polite by putting it like that in the cases of some of these people--that I've...associated successfully with. That I continue to associate successfully with. Every day, I do it, and I do it well. I've managed to be good at what I do without..." Stephen paused. 

"Blair says, without losing your heart," Brian said softly. 

Stephen looked around sharply. "He said that?" 

"Jim told me he did." 

Stephen turned back around. "I'd probably say '...without losing my scruples'. Without putting coming out on top first. I put a fair deal first, whether it's a particular wage for particular work, a contract negotiation, a quota demand, whatever. If I haven't got the resources for a fair deal with one supplier or vendor or labor negotiator or whoever, I either refer them to somebody who can give them one, or admit the situation and work from there. I do know when I'm being screwed, and I don't put up with it. I also have always known when a superior put me on a project expecting me do whatever it took, including screw the other guy, and I wouldn't do that, either...and I built myself a fairly decent reputation for that, even as I royally pissed off a few of my bosses. When they realized they were ultimately coming out on top of our competitors because I worked the deals that way, they were nothing but smiles and predictions of how I was going to go far..." 

"Well, that also explains why people like you." 

"Brian...it doesn't explain why _everybody_ likes me. With certain notable exceptions," Stephen acknowledged dryly as Rafe's expression became amused. "I mean...it doesn't explain why the Enrique Corleones and such of the world--" Brian stifled a laugh with one hand, "--and the rather more upstanding people I work with every day, in and outside MBE, like me equally well. I mean, Brian--what does that say about me? What am I, a businessman or a..." he trailed off. 

Brian saw the sudden hauntedness in the blue eyes as Stephen turned again to face him, and the glib comeback he'd had ready stilled on his lips as he realized that for Stephen--no matter how solidly sure he was of the worth of his work, and of his ability at it--this last was a very old question. 

Brian wet his lips and tried "I think it says more about you that you have the ability to make everybody happy in complex, high-stake situations, whether they came in expecting to be happy or not; and that while there's going to be setbacks and losses on everybody's part, no matter how hard everyone works, it's important to you to conclude things with the maximum amount of fairness and the minimum amount of loss, to anybody. Including unskilled bookbinding workers," Brian finished pointedly. "For a rich businessman, you're an easy guy to love, Stephen." 

Stephen looked away, his eyes bright. 

"You and Jim," Rafe smiled. 

Stephen looked back up at him. "What about us?" 

"Neither of you can take a compliment." 

"Yeah, well...people tend to look at my position and get an inflated notion of my net worth." 

"Meaning?" 

"Meaning I'm not that rich." 

"Stephen, you know what I was saying, it hasn't got anything to do with..." Stephen gave a small, evil smile and Brian realized he was being yanked. "Asshole." They both grinned a moment, then kissed softly. Stephen stayed close a moment, his cheek against Brian's, then sighed and moved back toward the steaks. "So I take it you see my problem." 

"Right. Enrique the Don is in no way incapable of dropping Martin Publishing as a client, despite the severe repercussions to some thousands of workers, if he doesn't get _you_ personally, seeing as how A, he's a wacko and B, the market is his right now, and he'd have no trouble lining another prospect up; so explaining the situation to him would be pointless. On the other hand, you _could_ risk your sanity and your life by going to South America, and in so doing, save some thousands of people from considerable difficulty, assuming you don't lose it in the middle of everything. Or you could plead illness and let your relevant partners, and Martin's people at the publishing company, try to patch things together, which you, with the consummate skill of the natural-born people person--" 

"Brian, if you just want into my pants, you don't have to work so hard," Stephen muttered, whanging on the meat. Rafe smirked but only raised his voice to continue being heard over the wham-wham-whams. 

"--are certain, on close acquaintance with the Don, will be fruitless. Do I have the picture?" 

"Yeah. You even have some parts I left out." 

"That's my job," Brian said in a godawful Jack Webb, approaching Stephen. "I'm a guide." 

Stephen groaned. "Watch it, I'm armed." 

Rafe chuckled, wrapped his arms around Stephen from behind and kissed the side of his neck. "So...can you tell me any more about where this leaves us?" 

"'Us'? It doesn't leave 'us' anywhere. It leaves 'me' in deep shit," Stephen muttered between swings. 

"Stephen, you are a piece of work sometimes, you know that? You're not alone, here." 

The pounding stilled. Stephen didn't look around. "Brian, you've done so much already. I can't...I can't go running to you every time something like this comes up, because this is definitely not gonna be the only time. It's the tip of the iceberg. And you have a life--one I've already thrown a massive monkey wrench into." 

"You haven't done anything to my life that I don't welcome." 

"Really?" Now Stephen did turn. "You welcome this hectic no-time-to-breathe confusion? You welcome having practically no social life because you can't afford to be too unavailable to me, and your job already takes all the time you can safely spare away from me? You welcome what amounts to a damn shotgun wedding? You _welcome_ being suddenly--" 

Brian kissed him to shut him up. Stephen knew it, but he kissed back anyway; Brian's kissing ability, and Stephen's fondness for kissing in general, was such that any excuse was good enough for Stephen. When they separated, Brian said, simply, "Yes." 

Stephen shook his head, his eyes closing. "I heard what you said to Jim that day while you thought I was napping...God. I don't believe you." 

"A lot of people say that about me." 

"I mean I don't _believe_ you. Nobody could be leaping with joy about something like this, nobody sane." 

"Stephen, if anybody could tell I wasn't lying, it's you. In fact, you shouldn't be able to _avoid_ seeing it. I don't know why you'd deliberately avoid it, either...maybe you're afraid to be loved by anybody but Jim, since he was the only one who did, the whole time you were growing up--and then finally he pulled out on you, too, the one person you believed in. Even if you're back to good with him, that's gotta hurt still. Hell, I don't know, I'm not Sandburg, I can't spin theories all day. All I do know is that if you'll just...look at me, listen to me, feel me--you'll know that I'm...no, not leaping for joy, more like...stunned. Thrilled. Yeah, knocked on my can, I admit that, but that doesn't mean I'm upset about it. What you've given me..." he reached up and cupped the other man's cheek gently. "...the things I've discovered, the things that have opened up to me...the way *you've* opened up to me, and opened _me_ up--I could never have expected anything like this. Sure, I was worried at first. But I didn't understand then..." 

"If you're about to say that we were meant to be, I'm leaving before your bosom starts to heave," Stephen muttered dryly. 

Brian snorted back a laugh and shook his head. "But you're...everything that was missing, Stephen--that I never realized was missing until Blair dragged me kicking and screaming into his world. When the shock wore off, I realized what he'd given me-- _you_. My...my sentinel, I guess. Giftwrapped, practically. I can't imagine what this has been like for you, but what it's been like for me _is_ kind of...a destiny-feeling thing, though maybe not in the classical sense. More like...when I found you, I found, inside of _me_...that everything I thought was missing had been there all along. You showed it to me." 

Stephen was quiet a moment, then finally raised his eyes. "If I tell you I love you, will you freak out on me?" Brian knew how Stephen felt; he couldn't have avoided knowing it, even if it hadn't come up in Dana's office as it had, but for whatever reason, he'd never simply said it to Rafe. And Rafe, knowing at least some of the reasons Stephen might be reluctant to say the words direct and outright, had refused to push him. 

Brian gazed intently back into Stephen's eyes. "Stephen, did someone freak out on you when you told them you loved them?" 

Stephen looked away. "I don't want to talk about it right now. Maybe at Dana's next week. Just...call it a personal neurosis." 

"In that case..." Now Brian smiled, slowly, radiantly. "If you tell me you love me, I'll sing hosannas and tell you I love you, too. Then I'll fuck you into the next plane of existence." 

Stephen grinned. 

Brian added helpfully "Or you could fuck me. I'm flexible that way." He gave a leer, but it was obvious to Stephen's senses that he was all but holding his breath in anticipation. 

Stephen's grin softened to a smile. "I love you." 

"YES!" Brian picked Stephen up around the waist and swung him in a circle. "He said it!" 

Stephen nearly fell over Brian's back in a somersault in astonishment. "Jesus, Brian, put me down before you rupture!" 

"Ahh, you're a feather." 

"I must outweigh you by thirty pounds." 

"More like twenty." Brian set him down, but didn't let him go. "That's not the first time I've picked you up, remember." 

"Well, no, I don't. I mean, I know you're the one who caught me that time in the shower when the spike hit, but I didn't know you'd carried me into Blair's room by yourself until he told me." 

"Not surprising. You were a mess. Can we get to the fucking part now?" Brian grabbed Stephen's head and began trying to suck his tongue out. 

While a long way from displeased, Stephen mustered his self-control and managed to get his mouth back after a moment, reminding Brian "We promised Jim and Blair food." 

Brian sighed ostentatiously. "Rats. We did, didn't we. Well, considering we've got this brand new complication to ask for their help with, we'd better at least feed them. If they walk in tired and starved and we're making like ferrets on the butcher block and the grill's still cold, they might be pissed." 

"Not the butcher block. My balance isn't that good," Stephen grinned, and kissed Brian again. 

Rafe pulled him close, in a gentle embrace. "So you believe me when I tell you that this is _our_ problem? That you're not alone with it?" 

"Yeah. I do." 

"Remember those words in case we decide to go public and get married." 

Stephen was still a moment. 

"Stephen?" Brian pulled back to look in Stephen's face. "Hey, relax. Just being my usual wiseass self." 

Stephen seemed to shake himself. "It's nothing, I'm...just thinking. Get the grill lit; I'll have the brush marinade ready in a few minutes." 

Brian nodded, kissed him again, started to turn away--then turned back and grabbed him, making Stephen burst out laughing as Brian pretended to devour his neck. "Brian!" 

Brian bit him lightly, but let him go, grinning, and started for the back patio. 

"Wait." 

Brian paused and turned; Stephen was gazing at him, blue eyes all liquid and quiet. Finally he whispered, "I want you. Almost from the first time I met you, you struck me as something damn special. But I swear, I didn't want to need you. I would never have wanted to do that to either of us." 

"I know," Brian said, equally soft. "I know. It's all right, Stephen. It worked out okay anyway." 

He went outside. Stephen continued to gaze after him a moment, wondering why he still didn't feel convinced, when all his senses, and their peculiar synergy, told him that Brian was unmistakably sincere. 

He turned around and started beating on the steaks again. Take that, and that, and that... 

* * *

"Steve?" Blair said uncertainly, blinking sleepily. The steak dinner was about to do him in; on top of his exhaustion, the meal had tied lead weights to his limbs and pumped a gallon of stupid-and-loving-it juice into his brain. All things considered, though, he felt pretty good. 

The younger Ellison was standing by the beveled-glass ironwork windows in the front parlor, gazing out, motionless in the late light, silhouetted by the deep gold of a summer sunset. He hadn't turned when Blair came in. Oops. Light through glass...Blair's guide alarms went off. "Shit. _Stephen_." 

Stephen shook himself a little and turned. "Yeah," he said. "It's all right, I'm here. No zone." He leaned back against the window, and smiled, looking a little tousled, distracted, sleepy. 

Blair came into the room. Something about the light, and Stephen's mildly disheveled appearance--the soft sweatpants and thin white t-shirt he was wearing...Blair had always known that Stephen was an attractive man--it was there to see, and besides, it'd be hard to be Jim's brother and be anything _but_ attractive. But it had never struck him this particular way--he looked different. There was a quality to him that Blair couldn't quite put his finger on--something timeless, even though Stephen had about as much weathering to his features as your average thirty-five-year-old. He seemed oddly young. Or, not so much young per se--hell, he was older than Blair--more like...youthful, new, in the way that an anentropic quality can illumine the eyes of an aged face. There was an openness in Stephen's eyes and expression, a kind of sweetly melancholy peace, that accepted the universe without judgement. It seemed that no matter which direction Stephen looked, he saw eternity. 

He still looked like Stephen. Unable to quantify the difference, Blair was reduced to supposing that he simply looked _more_ like Stephen than he had before, that he'd always been like that...it just hadn't been so apparent until recently. 

Blair suddenly realized that one, he was staring, and two, Stephen was flushing a little and his smile was broadening just slightly, and he was looking away shyly. "Thanks," he whispered. 

"Um, sorry. I didn't mean to, ah...make some kind of a synergy-of-the-senses come-on or anything," Blair hastened to assure him, also slightly embarrassed. 

"It's okay," Stephen said, still softly. "Dana says that it's a little-known fact that everybody feels and thinks things, every day, that they'd rather die than ever talk about. People think they have this midden of the unconscionable in their heads, and that nobody could possibly be as perverse, or bizarre, or mean or selfish as they are themselves, but _everybody_ thinks that, and never talks about it. It's just that now...I can sense some of those things, sometimes. I don't mean to pry." 

"It's not as though you can help it." Blair came up next to him, the golden light filling his eyes. It shimmered through the beveling of the glass, shone warmly in the multicolored glass shades and faceted pendant crystals of the antique lamps. Blair gazed out toward the rose-and-gold sunset a few moments, then looked back up at Stephen. "I can't imagine dealing with what you have to on a daily basis. I can't even imagine dealing with what _Jim_ has to deal with on a daily basis, and your situation...sheesh. You've been incredibly collected about this thing, especially considering the way the senses hit you at first." 

"Well, the idea didn't come out of the blue. I knew about Jim, so I didn't have to wonder if I was crazy. _Going_ crazy, maybe, if Brian hadn't come along..." he gazed at Blair another moment, head atilt, then said "Would it make you feel less awkward about what you were just thinking if I told you I think you're beautiful, too?" 

Blair blinked. "Really?" 

Stephen gave a slow nod, smiling, gold highlights shifting in his bronzey-glowing hair, which had lightened a bit with sun exposure over the weeks since summer began. "A little after we first met, when Jim told me about the two of you, I was insanely envious, if not exactly jealous. And not because you were with _him_. All that was still behind the barricades. It was because he had...you. Someone like you." He lifted a hand to tug gently at a loose curl, then smoothed it back from Blair's forehead. 

Blair felt himself turning as pink as Stephen had. A bashful smile curved his lips as he looked down--like Stephen again--then back up. "Thanks. Is it just me or are we flirting?" 

Stephen chuckled along with him. "Yeah, maybe a little. We're both flirters; I guess what's more startling is that we haven't done it more. I don't suppose the world will end." 

"I guess you're right. It's just that you're Jim's brother and everything...or maybe more to the point, it's that you feel like _my_ brother. Well, I think you do. Hard to tell; never had one before you." 

Stephen nodded, still smiling a little, his eyes trained with Blair's, as if to say "I know what you mean." But what he said was "If you _were_ going to make a whatever-kind-you-said pass at me, this would be a good time to try for a kiss." 

Blair cracked up. "Steve, man--Jim's right, you're, like, the kissing bandit, I swear. Except you don't steal the kisses, you ask for them." 

"I think it's left over from when I was little. Jimmy and I kissed all the time. Well, when we could. He'd kiss me goodnight to keep the scariness away when we couldn't sleep together. He'd kiss me when I was upset. Sometimes when I was crying, he had this thing he'd do--plant a bunch of really wet kisses real fast and noisy all over my face, until I was laughing too hard to cry and saying 'gross' and making a big show of wiping the spit off." 

"So it's more a comforting thing for you than a turn-on?" 

"Well, I wouldn't go _that_ far..." Stephen considered him a moment, smiling speculatively, then said "It's comforting, yeah. Friendly. But under the right circumstances it can also turn on every light in the place." 

"Maybe we could compromise on a little bit of warm fuzzy?" Blair asked, smiling, as he stepped forward to put his hands on Stephen's waist. 

Stephen nodded, too, as he let his own hands settle on Blair's shoulders. "Sounds good." 

Blair stretched up and softly kissed Stephen's cheek, as he'd done frequently before; Stephen closed his eyes. Then, when Blair pulled back a little, he turned his head to kiss Blair's temple. They stood there close a moment. Then Blair lifted his head again and their lips touched, very gentle, and chaste. As their mouths clung softly--just a little longer, just a little--Blair's hand came up to caress the back of Stephen's neck... 

...and footsteps and voices sounded in the hall approaching the parlor. Stephen's hands tightened on Blair's shoulders to keep him from pulling away as the younger man's eyes widened in startlement. A wolf whistle echoed through the room as Jim's broadly amused voice came to their ears. "Whoa-oh, baby! Stand back everybody, we've got a case of public indecency in progress--" 

Brian stopped whistling long enough to add "Remember to breathe! Be a giver, not a taker! And keep in mind, there _is_ such a thing as too much tongue!" He and Jim kept making amused hot-cha-cha noises as they came in, and Stephen's mouth finally released Blair's. 

"Dirty trick, Mr. Sentinel Hearing," Blair muttered to the snickering and unrepentant Stephen. He then turned a sour look on the other two. "It was a _friendly_ kiss. We're brothers-in-law." Stephen was snagging Blair's shirt and tugging, pulling him over into a one-armed hug. Blair went without protest, still faking a scowl at Rafe and Jim. 

"Yeah, and the family that plays together stays together," Brian reminded him. "Remember who you're locking lips with, there. The word 'brother' doesn't exactly sink his dinghy, if you know what I--" 

"Brian, don't be crass," Stephen said, lips quirking in a mixture of amusement and annoyance. "Everybody get comfy. We have a new problem; Brian and I need some input..." 

* * *

It was quiet for a few moments in the front downstairs parlor when Stephen finished; he was leaning on the mantelpiece, staring into the softly crackling fire. Blair, under the sedative influence of supper, had finally given up the ghost--or most of it--and was drowsing on a chaise lounge, upper half in Brian's lap; Brian sat stroking Blair's curly head absently. Jim was sitting on the hearth near Stephen, in a pose more than a little reminiscent of Rodin's "The Thinker". 

"Well," Jim said, "the most obvious solution is that Brian goes with you." 

Stephen said "I do a lot of business traveling, Jim, you know that. He can't come with me every time. I won't ask for any more of his time and energy than he already gives me; his job is too important to him." 

"Ahem, Stephen. I _am_ in the room," Brian reminded him with a droll half-smile. 

Stephen glanced over and smiled back, ruefully. "Sorry. I just wanted to get all that out of the way before somebody starts telling me I'm too worried about screwing up your life. I'm not 'too' worried. It's the biggest concern, here." 

" _Your_ biggest concern," Jim snorted, "maybe. The rest of us are a little more worried about the possibility of your grisly demise." 

"I never said I wasn't worried about that," Stephen muttered. "But think about it, Jim. Even if I were willing to drag Brian away from work, and even if the city was remotely interested in letting him take off, with or without pay, whenever I had to take a trip--how would I explain it? Suddenly I can't go anywhere without...well, him?" Stephen cocked his head toward Brian. 

"What do you mean, 'well, him'?" Brian asked. "What's wrong with 'him'?" 

"Nothing," Stephen said. "You're spectacular. That's part of my point." 

Jim sighed loudly and got up, beginning to pace slowly around the room. "There's got to be some kind of answer here. Look at Blair and me." 

"Different situation, Jim," Stephen said, quietly, sadly. "You and Blair were living very openly as roommates--with the excellent excuse of Blair's supposed dissertation, and Blair being a broke grad student who could use the cheap rent--for quite some time before you fell in love. By the time you two became an item, there was nothing unusual left for anybody to notice--and as far as being your guide, like I said, the fake diss topic covered your being together so much nearly every day. Especially since, for years, you two kept tangling with assorted women...most of them of dubious character." 

"Like you've only ever dated paragons of virtue." 

"Actually," Stephen said, "I _have_ only dated paragons of virtue. Which is probably why I kept getting bored and breaking it off." He sat down on the hearth with a sigh, then edged a little farther away from the cool-colored driftwood flames. 

"Are you saying I'm not a paragon of virtue?" Brian wondered. 

"I'm saying I'm willing to overlook it in your case," Stephen said, and smiled back at Brian. 

Jim was still pacing. "Look, we've talked before about Rafe taking a leave of absence until we can figure something out. Is that still an option, Rafe?" 

Rafe started to speak, but Stephen cut in. "No, it isn't. What would it accomplish? What's going to change between now and a month from now, or two months, or whatever? It'd just complicate Brian's life even more, and to no purpose." 

"A lot of things might change," Jim insisted. "You're still growing, changing, getting control. Like Blair says, we've really got no way to predict what'll happen next--if anything--or _when_ it'll happen. For all we know you could end up completely independent of Brian in a month or two." 

Stephen just gazed at Jim a moment, then said "Jim, I'm not sure how to say this...but--in terms of being a sentinel--I have this...intuition that...it'll be longer than that. I just have to figure out how to keep it from impinging on his life any more than it has to." 

"I don't even need to be here, do I?" Brian muttered down to the mostly-sleeping Blair. 

"Mm," Blair murmured in apparent agreement. 

"Does Jim talk about you over your head a lot?" 

"Mm-hm. Used to." Blair turned over, burrowing into Brian, hiding his face in Brian's side. Rafe smiled briefly at what a cuddly creature Sandburg was when he was sleepy, stroked his hair again, and returned his attention to the debate. 

"What about your taking some kind of leave, Stephen?" Jim wondered. "You've told me about all those bright young things you've got under you; I'm sure there are at least a few you could send up to the partners as candidates to fill in your position--" Stephen started to cut him off, but Jim waved him silent. "I know you're kind of indispensable, and that that's the reason you _are_ where you are at your age. But for God's sake, you're a human being. If they think you've got some kind of affliction that needs therapy before you're back up to par, then--" 

"I am one of very few people in the business world--at least as high up in an organization as I am--to whom the fact of people's humanity is of any import," Stephen said dryly. "MBE is a business, Jim, not a state-sponsored work camp, and not a charity. I'll admit I'm highly valued for what I can do; like you say, being in a position like mine at my age is almost unprecedented for anyone who didn't get there because they have the right parents. My _keeping_ that position, therefore, depends on my ability to perform. I'd still have to show my partners, and most likely a number of primary stockholders, why they should bend over backwards that far for me, and right now, I haven't got anything to tell them except 'Look what I've done for the company so far'. As far as they're concerned, that's old news. There are current quotas and quarterly budgets to meet, and a lot of the mechanics and convolutions behind them were designed specifically with me in mind--what _I_ can do, primarily in working with people, in and outside of the company. If I can't come through, they're going to have to do some pretty major crisis management to re-tailor the situation to something they can handle without me, and they're going to have to do it _yesterday_ unless they want the shocks repercussing right down to the office bagel girl. Do you have any idea how many lives are affected by the things I do every day? Not to mention the fact that some half a dozen of those 'bright young things', most of whom are older than I am, would like nothing better than to swoop in and save the day--or at least be perceived as saving the day--and convince the other partners that there are more expedient management and negotiation styles than mine, despite my track record." 

"That's what you get for _not_ being an opportuning asshole in the business world," Rafe pointed out idly. 

Jim was waving a tired hand to try to slow Stephen's rapid-fire explaining. "Stephen, I understand what you're saying. Christ, I'm not an idiot. I'm just not ready to give up so soon." 

Stephen said softly, "No, you want things to work out fairly and rightly and justly. It's just a need you have, no matter how many times you've seen it bent out of shape and thrown back in your face. But I've been in business quite a while. If I want to get what I want, here--namely neither me nor Brian having to totally trash our careers over this--I'm going to have to take a loss somewhere. It's all about bargaining, Jim, and I'm a past master. I just have to figure out what I can afford to put on the table and what I can't." 

"What _we_ can't," Brian growled. 

Stephen glanced over at him, nodding. "Sorry. What _we_ can't." 

Blair mumbled something. Brian didn't catch it, but Stephen and Jim both turned to stare at the sleeping man. 

"What was that?" Brian murmured to Blair. 

"Said c'mout," Blair said, and subsided again. 

"Come out?" Brian wondered, looking back up at Stephen. 

"What the hell does he mean?" Jim muttered. 

Stephen blinked a moment, watching Blair, then sighed and said "I see what he's saying. I'm not sure if I'm ready to go with it, but I see what he's saying." 

"Maybe you could share with the class," prompted Jim, folding his arms in his impatient, squared stance. 

"Well, Jim, think. What would be the worst that could happen here?" 

Jim blinked. "People finding out...uh...actually it's all pretty bad. That you're with Brian, that you're a sentinel, that you do have a condition that makes you delicate--so far, at least--even if they don't know what it is, specifically..." 

"What would happen if we had to tell my partners I'm sick?" 

"It'd...cause problems with your job, obviously." 

"In essence, I'd lose my job. The best I could hope for would be to get kicked sideways, and I might never regain my active partnership. But Brian would be in about the same position he is now." 

Jim nodded. 

"How about if we told them I'm a sentinel?" 

Jim snorted. "Right. We're _all_ screwed, across the board." 

"Exactly. So, how about if Brian and I came out to my partners and I moved in with him?" 

"Hell, could they afford to have you in the position you're in if they knew?" 

"You've got to admit, they wouldn't have anything to gain, and a hell of a lot to lose, by making any significant stink about my being with a man. After all, look where I am. If they found some other excuse to get rid of me in whatever manner--and while I can't call them friends, exactly, Jim, I can tell you they aren't the type to have a morally outraged shit fit over something like this; people in their positions have been around a lot more than once--then I wouldn't have anything left to gain by staying in the closet, would I? So I'd be out, telling my story--loudly and in detail, minus the sentinel parts--and they'd be in the middle of the road, being mowed down between the faction that'd make the company's life hell for having had me as a partner in the first place, and the faction that would be outraged they'd got rid of me for being gay. Oh, I could make their lives a living hell, all right, and seriously screw with the standing of MBE and the subsidiaries, for quite a long time to come if they tried anything, and they'd know it. Remember, they _do_ know what I can do; that's why I am where I am. Also, I'm very green-friendly in the media--another reason I have the position I do; I'm about the cheapest PR a business that size could possibly hope for. I'm a patron of the local ACLU chapter, and I'm on two state environmental watchdog boards, among other things. Liberals adore me." He smiled slightly. "Dad won't admit it, but he hates that." 

Jim was clearly still cogitating. "So...you're talking about making it...an open secret?" 

"Something like that. That would explain my living with him, and at least some of the general togetherness factor. If he _should_ need to come with me on a trip sometime, my partners wouldn't wonder at it; it's not all that common, but it's not unheard of for people in my position to bring their spouses on business trips. Under those circumstances, I guess we could give him a briefcase and call him my aide if Martin was nervous about whoever I was meeting with seeing us together. It still leaves a lot of problems, of course. Like some of those bright young things who wouldn't hesitate to try to use my bringing him with me to convince Martin that _they_ might better represent the company than I do. And then there's _this_ damn trip. But assuming we come up with a way to deal with that, Brian and I would still both have a chance of keeping our jobs, where the other options have at least one of us, and possibly both, sacrificing in a much bigger way." 

"I dunno, Stevie. For even more reasons than you just brought up, it's risky as hell." 

"I'm not denying that. As in any business venture, the more you stand to gain, the more you stand to lose. But this may be the cheapest way I can get away from the bargaining table, at least for the time being." 

Brian sighed in long-suffering. " _We_ ," he said again. 

"Right, sorry. The cheapest way _we_ can get away." 

"Stephen, this...it's dangerous for you, as public as your position is, and besides, Brian's already about as out as he can comfortably get, in his job." 

"I know, and that's not the least of the potential problems with this idea," Stephen admitted. "I'm _your_ brother. I move in with him, and believe me, Jim--it may take time, but eventually, people are going to start looking even more askance at you and Blair, too. And it's going to draw more attention to Brian than it would if I were anybody else--this place is big enough to house a football team; if I weren't Stephen Ellison, he could pass it off as his wanting a roommate or a tenant or something to help him keep the place up. Since I am, and he can't...well, there just _is_ no smoke-screen rationalization that would hold water, especially considering Brian's out to a lot of the people he knows. And...I'd venture to say that at least some people where you work, Jim, who've been looking the other way out of respect for his professional ability, might find it a little too much to take that he's living openly with a male lover. Blair's in the least obvious way of truly dangerous hassles, but he's definitely still at risk, too. We'll _all_ come under the microscope, which is why I can't make this decision unilaterally. We've all got to agree on whatever course of action we take." 

Brian was shaking his head. "Do you think any of us wouldn't be willing to deal with that to protect your _life_? You need me. Our current living arrangements aren't only a total pain in the ass, inconvenient as hell, they're way too dangerous for you. The more you're with me, the safer you are--at least for now--" 

"'For now'; exactly; Jim said it--we can't be sure about anything concerning my abilities or any danger they may put me in--" 

"Except that they nearly fucking killed you once already," Jim muttered. 

Stephen continued as if Jim hadn't spoken. "So what if it works out like he said, and before long, I only need you to about the same degree that Jim needs Blair? We'll have blown our situations out of the water for nothing if it turns out we all take a lot of heat over this." 

Jim approached Stephen and took his shoulders. "Then why propose this idea at all?" he said softly. 

Brian said "Jim, you were the one who..." Stephen turned a look at Brian, and Brian, seeing that something was coming down that he didn't have all the dope on, trailed off and went back to cosseting Blair. 

"For one thing," Stephen smiled wryly, nodding toward the somnolent Blair, "this is _his_ idea, remember? I have to admit I saw his point at once, though, and I mostly agree with him. Like I said, it's all about give and take. This would be a proactive solution. If I move in with Brian, this is going to come out, and we _are_ all going to feel it one way or another. But if we're fairly open about the fact that I'm living with him, up front about it, and above all casual about it-- _and_ we've all secured the cooperation of our own higher-ups--we may be able to keep it from blowing up at all. More likely there'll be at least some static, but we pull a lot of the wind out of its sails by taking the initiative. All I meant was, it's not a sure thing, and it affects us all. We already know what Blair thinks. Would you two like to take some time and think about it? Maybe talk to Simon? This is going to affect him, too." 

"Simon would support us," Rafe said solidly. "He's always been great about the three of us." 

"Still, it'll affect him. Especially since he _has_ always been so there for you, it might make things easier for him to stomach if he's got some warning about what you're thinking before you make any decisions. One other thing--like I said, we _could_ tell Martin I'm still sick. That'd land me in the soup, but the rest of you would be free and clear. So think about it before--" 

Brian shook his head. "No good. In terms of your safety, you really should've moved in already. And when you do that, we'll be faced with just the same situation. You could discreetly hire a specialist to take care of you if that were the reason you needed to be living with someone; there's no way we could pass it off as me looking after you like I do my sister. So don't tell them you're sick." Brian sighed, chewing his lip. When he released it a moment later, a bit reddened and swollen, he looked back up, bright hazel eyes steady. "I'm up for it. The subtle self-outing approach, I mean. Let's do it." 

"Don't be too hasty--" 

"Stephen, I'm your guide. Maybe my job has always been my whole life, or most of it; but my job is now running about neck and neck with my need--my _desire_ \--to be that, be a guide, be _your_ guide. I thought I explained that, a little before dinner...?" 

Stephen looked into the fire, then nodded, his eyes unfocused. "You did." 

"On top of which, Blair said something, back when he was trying to draft me into this. He asked me why being there for you, keeping you safe, should be any less important than being there for anyone else I'm sworn to protect. You can't just go to the hospital, or hire a nurse or something, to help you deal with this. For all practical purposes, I am _it_." 

Stephen nodded again, still looking vaguely uncomfortable. 

"Look," Jim said. "You may think this idea is our best shot, and just as I stand here turning it over it looks like you're probably right. But it's also obvious you're not too thrilled with it." 

"I'm not. It has the potential to hurt too many people besides me. Who happen to be the people I care most about." 

Jim came up to rest his hands on Stephen's shoulders from behind. "Then maybe we could postpone it. Buy some time. Something _might_ change, something to give us some more alternatives. After all, this wasn't going to fix your South American trip problem anyway, was it? Maybe we could come up with an excuse for you to stay with Brian temporarily--better yet, have him haul some more shit over to your place and you won't have to change all your home mailing and contact numbers. I agree, you need to be with Brian more, but...maybe we can find some other way that...that you'll like better." 

Stephen turned and eyed Jim. Jim didn't say anything, but he felt his brother's eyes like an imaging scan. 

"That I'll...like better," Stephen whispered, one eyebrow aloft, and Jim, though he didn't release Stephen's shoulders, couldn't meet his gaze. 

Brian, trying to readjust Blair, didn't notice. "That _would_ be simpler," he acceded. "His home office looks like a Kinko's. I dread to think of rewiring the upstairs parlor if it turns out to be only a temporary move. But what would I be doing at Stephen's?" Brian puzzled. "That we could tell people without making waves, that is." 

"Well..." Jim released his brother's shoulders gently and paced slowly a little more. "Speaking of waves. You're in love with Stephen's swimming pool, right?" Rafe liked the fact that it was lined with natural rock. He would kind of wander across the bottom and around the sides, submerged, eyes closed, just floating and touching the rock; it was some kind of meditative thing he liked to do, similar to his centering Tai Chi routines. Once he hadn't come up for disturbingly close to two minutes, and Stephen had asked him if he'd ever heard the name Valentine Michael Smith. 

"Well, yeah," Brian said, grinning his boyish, currently rather abashed grin. "But I can't tell people _that_ when they want to know why they can reach me over there. 'I'm too attached to his damn pool to leave'?" 

"No, but you've been thinking for a long time of putting in your own pool, out in that gigantic back yard, right?" 

Brian blinked at Jim. "Well, I was putting it off...it's gonna be a major noise hassle, and I hate to think what the equipment treads are going to do to the--" he grinned again, slowly. "God, I hate the sound of steam shovels, don't you?" 

"Hate it," Jim agreed, smiling back at him. 

"And the dust. Lord, the dust. Can't take it. Stephen, got a room I could use for a few weeks?" 

Stephen met Brian's eyes and smiled. 

Blair zawped and Brian jumped. "Watch what you're inhaling down there, cute stuff." 

"Mmph." Blair squirmed. "What'd I miss?" He flopped over on his back. 

Stephen leaned down to him, touching his face, his eyes slitting closed just a moment; his mouth opened slightly as he inhaled. He cocked his head, then said "Nothing. You heard it all." 

"I gotta go to bed," mumbled Blair. 

"It's only eight-thirty," Jim puzzled. "Didn't you have work to do?" Not that he didn't think Blair should go the fuck to bed; he'd been trying to get him to do just that for a couple of days, but in the truck on the way over Blair had made a big point of the urgency of the paperwork crunched into his seam-strained backpack. 

"I'll get up and do it early. I can't see, man." 

"Your eyes are closed," Stephen pointed out. 

"They are?" 

Brian kind of gathered around with his arms underneath Blair, then did something that one would have had to call "standing up" for lack of a more specific term, but it didn't seem inclusive enough. It involved some kind of knees-and-pelvis swivel ("slithered up"?) that prevented Sandburg's weight from even beginning to drag at or overbalance him as he straightened from the couch. Then, holding Blair in his arms, he was maneuvering around a cherrywood occasional table. "C'mon, Sandburg. I'll park you in Stephen's room." 

"You know," Blair graveled dully, eyes still closed, "you're gonna make a teeeeny miscalculation and herniate yourself one of these days, and if it happens on the stairs or something like that, it'll likely kill whoever you're packing around." 

Brian was already heading that way. "I need the practice. I've only had one serious workout this week; Henri and I have been getting caught up on our caseload. We had about half a dozen of those damn pink notices from records, overdue reports. And follow up on old cases, you name it...put your arm around my neck, I didn't quite get you up as high as I was trying for. You been hitting that weird blueberry microbrew again?" 

Jim shook his head. "I think I dislocated a hip just _watching_ that," he said, sucking air through his teeth in an "ouch" sound. 

Stephen grinned and grabbed Jim's ass. "Feels okay to me." 

Jim grinned back and swatted at his hand, deliberately missing as Stephen snatched his arm back, then turned and sat on the chaise the other two had vacated, holding out his hand; Stephen came to him, arranging himself in the curve of Jim's arm, staring at the fire again. 

"Stephen..." 

"I'm not zoning," Stephen responded in an exasperated tone. "I'm picking out larger pockets of salt in the firewood. There's going to be a blue flare on the top log at the left end, right...now." 

The blue flame jumped amidst the golden ones, then subsided. 

"Can you see it?" Stephen didn't need to elaborate. 

Jim smiled, watching the fire, too. "Yeah," he said softly. They were both quiet a few moments... 

"DON'T ZONE!" Brian bellowed from upstairs. 

Both brothers winced, their concentration broken. "That was his crowd-control voice," Jim noted, mouth quirking. 

"How the hell do they do that?" Stephen wondered, rubbing his ear, plainly not talking about crowd-control voice. 

"I don't know. Blair's been doing things like that with me for a while now, but I assumed it was part of the whole shaman thing. The passing of the way is a necessary step when a shaman of Incacha's tribe dies, but even so, he wouldn't pass it on to someone who couldn't fill the role; I knew him too well to believe he'd do that, even if the circumstances didn't leave him much in the way of choices. As far as Brian goes, I have no clue. You might ask Blair when he rejoins the living." 

They were quiet a while, watching the fire. 

Jim felt Stephen cock his head. Once again, seeing Stephen do that, he wondered if all sentinels had certain mannerisms; if, as Blair would say, it was a result of some inobvious method of maximizing the sense in question--or if Stephen just did some of the same things Jim did as personal Ellison quirks. Stephen said "Listen." 

"They can't be fooling around again. Blair's nearly unconscious." 

"No. Listen." 

Jim did. *...leeme lone...* 

*C'mon, cute stuff, you'll thank me in the morning. Oof--* there was the sound of a hiking boot, size eight and a half, hitting the hardwood floor. *Okay, let's get those jeans off...stop squirming. You told me your nads always wind up strangulated when you sleep in your jeans, so let's lift that round little ass, c'mon...* Brian was plainly enjoying himself, and Blair's overtired-six-year-old antics. 

*Hey...git outa m'pants...* Jim could hear a smile in Blair's slurred voice. 

*Oh, I'm not after your virtue--such as it is--right at the moment...there we go...hold up your arms...good boy. Crawl in...* the bed creaked and rustled. *Say goodnight, Blair.* 

*Night Bla...zzzz...* 

"They'll even nursemaid each _other_?" Stephen chuckled. 

Jim made a small, smiling noise of agreement, rubbing his cheek lightly against Stephen's shiny, floppy hair. Stephen turned his head for a kiss, and Jim gave him one, slow and soft. They were in the middle of it when Brian came trotting lightly down the broad staircase and through the central hall, around the corner and back into the parlor. "No zoning, you two," he reminded them with a grin as he moved to knock the burning logs around a little with the poker and add another chunk of driftwood. The kiss broke as both brothers spluttered words to the effect that they weren't zoning, goddammit, so get off it. 

Ignoring that, Brian looked up from the fire and said suddenly "Say. Kiss him again, Stephen." At the amused look that came over both Ellisons' faces, he chuckled at himself and said "I'm curious about something. As far as I know, the last time Jim ate anything, before dinner, was on his coffee break at about three this afternoon; I saw what it was. Do you think you can use smell and taste to figure it out?" 

Stephen blinked. "Well, I know Jim can do that kind of thing. And Blair thinks the reason kissing Jim calmed me down so much when I was sick--besides the obvious--is that Jim hadn't really been eating, either, and so he tasted more like himself than usual, which apparently is a lot like me...so I _might_ be able to pick out something like that, but..." 

"You can use a combination of all five senses to figure out what people are _thinking_ , for God's sake. You can look at the sky and tell me how many people have passed by a given spot on the sidewalk over the course of the day. I'm not even going to bring up that night on the roof. And I've seen you--" 

"But I don't do that on purpose--rather, except for the roof thing, I don't know _how_ I do it. You remember that little poem about the centipede, Jim? You mentioned it to me when I asked you how you learned to type so fast when I was having a hell of a time in the same class." 

Jim grinned and spoke. "A centipede was happy quite/ Until a frog in fun/ Asked him 'Which leg moves after which?'/ Which raised his thoughts to such a pitch/ He fell exhausted in a ditch--" 

"--Not knowing how to run," Brian finished, grinning too. "I've heard that one." 

Stephen shrugged under the weight of Jim's arm. "Then you see what I mean. When things don't...just happen for me, it's hard for me to say what I will and won't be able to do." 

"It'll be easy," Brian insisted. "You know about going through all the stimuli one by one, acknowledging them, and tuning them out. Eventually, once you tune out Jim's own tastes and smells and what he just ate for dinner, that'll be the most noticeable thing left." 

"If it was a plain bagel or something, I might not pick it up. It'd have to be something strong enough to still be detectable in his system." 

"Jim doesn't eat plain bagels on his breaks unless Sandburg is there looking over his shoulder. Believe me, if you can detect anything at all, you'll be able to detect this." 

"Give up, Stephen. It's in his blood, apparently. He won't relent until you've at least tried," Jim advised his brother. 

"Well...I may need to...uh...it may take a while..." 

"Oh, hardship," Brian smirked, rolling his eyes, then exchanged a grin with Jim. He approached and stood behind Stephen, resting his hands gently on the other man's shoulders, stroking lightly. "Just take it easy. Calm...ground and center, like I've been showing you with the Tai Chi...and remember, the taste and smell of all of his skin might be relevant; if you get stymied, you don't have to confine yourself to his mouth and his breath." 

Stephen closed his eyes and took a centering breath. 

Brian murmured "That's right. Don't push the distractions away, don't try to squash them--let them _fall_ away, drift away...just let them all go, one by one..." 

After a moment, Stephen's eyes opened and he leaned forward. Jim met him halfway, letting his mouth stay open and relaxed as Stephen's tongue reached in and stroked. The younger Ellison paused a moment, releasing Jim's mouth but not pulling away, as his eyes closed again and he took a deep breath, then another, then leaned in and pressed his mouth to Jim's again. 

After a moment he pulled away a fraction, and raised a hand to touch Jim's chin and turn his head a little; mouth slightly open, he lowered his head to Jim's neck, inhaling softly, moving his face slowly along the line of Jim's trapezius. He let his lips brush Jim's throat, then licked gently at the soft flesh there, just below the beard line. Jim shivered, eyes closing. 

"Steady," Brian whispered, but it was unclear to which of them he was speaking. "Concentrate." 

"I'm stuck on the steak marinade," Stephen admitted in a bare whisper, not lifting his head or opening his eyes; he nuzzled gently at Jim's throat. 

"Right; break it down," Brian reminded him. "You know what you put in it. Find each of the components and eliminate them one at a time...that's good. You're doing fine." His hands kept moving slowly on Stephen's shoulders. 

Stephen opened his lips against Jim's neck and began a very gentle suction, his tongue still stroking softly over the skin. Jim groaned low in his throat. Brian gulped. Jim wasn't surprised. 

Stephen moved his mouth back to Jim's, his tongue rubbing Jim's gently a few times; then he leaned back a little, his eyes slitting open. "Chocolate glaze," he murmured. "Confectioner's sugar. Buttermilk...the kind of glazed doughnut Blair would get pissed at you for eating," he murmured, smiling, eyes again closed. "With sprinkles?" 

"Yeah," Jim grinned. "With sprinkles." 

As Stephen began to bring himself back to his surroundings, aided by his contact with Brian, the intimacy of their current configuration became subtly more charged. Brian cleared his throat, coloring up a little and avoiding Jim's eyes. 

"How about you try it with Brian?" Jim offered innocently. 

Stephen blinked. "Um...okay. Did he eat something I could pick out?" 

"Oh, you'll get it, I think. Plus you've just eliminated most of the same factors in me that you'd have to get past in him, since we ate the same things for supper. It'll hardly take you a minute. Give it a shot." 

Stephen got up; Brian moved his hands, but Stephen, still a little out of it, just took them in his own and leaned in to sniff him. He moved closer, letting go of the hands and resting his own on Brian's chest as he stroked his mouth and nose lightly along the side of Brian's neck. Brian's eyes closed and his head lowered a little, as if to help Stephen's concentration by being calm and centered himself. 

Stephen lifted his chin and kissed him slowly. 

Then he spun around and spat into the fireplace. Rafe staggered, Jim snickered, and Stephen, wiping his face, glared over his shoulder at Jim. "Sonofabitch!" 

Jim was cracking up. Stephen grabbed a cushion and slammed it down onto his brother's head with both hands. 

"OW! Shit!" 

"You _asshole_!" 

Cowering, Jim explained to the stricken-looking Rafe--who was obviously fluctuating between either giving Stephen a humble apology or demanding one-- "He can't stand coconut." 

"And you _know_ that, you--" Stephen was hauling off for another slam with the cushion; Jim bolted from the room. 

Watching, amused, as Stephen pursued, Brian murmured "Remind me of that next time you see me about to eat an Almond Joy." 

Thundering footsteps receded into the depths of the house, becoming muffled, interspersed with semi-intelligible comments like "...make me spit Brian out, will you...what the hell must he have thought, you sick fuck--" 

"I want to see a permit for that cushion..." 

"...got your permit right here, come have a..." 

Slam. Bonk. Thud. Whap whap whap whap...Brian shook his head and went to investigate, smiling. 

They were in what had been the solarium, at the southeast end of the ground floor. It was devoid of plant life now, scrubbed out and vacant; there was a rounded depression in the flagstones, near the middle of the room, with a nozzle in the center and small, thin slits around the perimeter; a decorative pool, now dry. Jim was in it, in an unconsciously graceful half-crouch, protecting his head with both arms as Stephen beat the daylights out of him with the cushion. Jim's unabated laughter seemed to be making Stephen crazier, though he was grinning, too. 

Suddenly he dropped the cushion. "I'm gonna tell Brian about the peeps." 

Jim's laughter stopped and he looked up. "You wouldn't." 

"Wouldn't I?" 

"Peeps?" Brian wondered. 

Stephen, eyes gleaming evilly, turned to Rafe, still panting from his exertions. "Jimmy was an altar boy for a while when he was twelve. Despite his continued insistence that he's never liked that kind of thing--still says he hates toasted marshmallows--he stuffed himself on those godawful little puffed-sugar birds you see in kids' Easter baskets, the night before morning Mass--Sally left a bag of them on the kitchen counter before she went home. To make a long story short--" 

"Stephen," Jim growled, rising from his crouch. 

"--and to give credit where it's due, he did try to make it down from his spot by the altar and out of the sanctuary before...well, he got a few steps hanging on to the altar rail, got knocked off balance against the communion table and threw up right on the Host." 

Brian's eyes got huge. Well, huger. 

"Stephen," Jim said conversationally, "I'm going to kill you now. Hold still and it'll hurt le--" 

He was cut off by wild shrieks of laughter from Rafe. "Oh God! In front of the whole congregation?" 

"More than the whole congregation. It was Easter. People show up on Easter and Christmas who never set foot inside a church otherwise." 

"What did the priest do?" 

"He turned a little green, but he helped Jimmy sit down in a front pew where me and Dad could get to him and get him to the bathroom, and sent the other altar boys for something to clean it up with, and for fresh cloths and what have you from the sacristy." 

"Talk about your literal transubstantiation," Brian was cackling, leaning against a big, tub-shaped stone planter that was carved with leafy vines. "Was it before or after the consecration?" 

"Before, thank God, or they might have excommunicated his ass. Who'd genuflect to _that_ , much less eat it? Do you know how many neon artificial colors peeps come in? Father Carmicheal also had everybody kneel to pray for Jimmy. He figured he had some kind of really awful flu, but hadn't wanted to miss his big Easter gig." 

Jim was miming strangling Stephen, but gave it up after a second and let his arm slide easily over his brother's shoulders. "I have one thing to be thankful for out of all that," he admitted philosophically. "My school district line got shifted just a few weeks later, so I finished junior high outside the parish; I pretty much stopped running up against people I knew from church in school every day. I didn't think I was ever gonna stop hearing various versions of 'Jimmy. Rule number one: No puking on the Eucharist.' I ever tell you what Father Carmicheal said to me while he was helping me down?" Stephen shook his head. "He said 'Don't worry about interrupting the service, my son. God is more flexible than some of our congregation would have you believe.'" 

Stephen laughed softly. "He knew Dad pretty well, all right." 

"So, whatever happened to good old Father Carmicheal?" Brian wondered, smiling. 

Stephen smiled, too. "He still conducts the Saint's masses. Dad and I both make it a point to see him at Easter mass every year. Jimmy's still too embarrassed." 

"I am NOT, you..." Jim gave Stephen a fake noogie. "I just...I just don't feel right there, any more. For a lot of reasons. And I'm kind of the prodigal..." 

"Yeah," Stephen said softly. "I know. But I think Father Carmicheal would be glad to see you again anyway. He hasn't got much longer, you know." 

Jim nodded. 

"Done having your moment of fraternal rivalry?" Rafe asked, arms folded, still leaning against the planter. His expression was gentle and speculative. "If not, take it to a room that isn't walled mostly by glass." 

"Just one more thing," Jim said, letting go of Stephen to go over to Brian and get in his personal space, looming over him. Brian just looked up at him, waiting. 

"If you tell _anyone_ at the station about the peeps..." 

Rafe grinned. "Who? Me?" 

Jim groaned as Stephen snickered. 

* * *

"Jimmy?" Stephen whispered, sentinel-soft. 

"Mm-hm?" Jim, still awake, wondered, also near-silently. Blair's arm was wrapped around Jim's throat; Jim moved it a little. Blair snuffled but didn't wake. 

"I was about to join Brian, and I wanted to see if Blair was okay first. He's been ragged for weeks now." 

"He's still asleep. His vitals are fine. Erf..." 

"What's wrong?" Stephen peered into the darkened room, dilating his eyes. 

"He does this sometimes, when he's really tired, or stressed. He nearly beat me out of bed after the Sarsen case." 

"Does what?" 

"Well, look at him." 

"It looks like he's trying to climb right into you." 

"He'll calm down in a second, he's just...there he goes. He just kind of fusses around against me. Stephen...this might be a violation of his privacy, but I've asked him, and he says he can't remember. Do you think you can figure out what he's dreaming? I wouldn't ask, but..." 

"But you're worried, I know. You just want to know if it's nightmares, right?" 

"Yeah, something like that." 

Stephen approached the bed quietly and knelt, eyes focused on Blair. "You know," he whispered, "I can't promise anything..." 

"I know. Just give it a shot." 

Stephen reached out tentatively, stroking Blair's hair gently once, then moving his fingertips to Blair's forehead, trailing them across the smooth, fair skin. He touched the other man's lips lightly, then leaned over, mouth a little open, and inhaled. He was still a long time, head cocked, listening. 

Finally Jim was moved to whisper "Stephen?" 

Stephen blinked, startled back into awareness, and leaned back. He smiled. "It's okay, Jim. He's dreaming about you." 

"What about me?" Jim looked alarmed. 

"I said it's okay. Nothing bad, not you getting shot or anything. He's dreaming that he's right where he is." 

Jim looked down at Blair. "Then...why is he so agitated?" 

"Because when he gets into the sleepless grad-student groove, he has a hell of a time turning off, even to sleep, you know that. We all saw him in the parlor earlier." 

"So this is just kind of...random squirming?" 

"Not quite. He wants to...um, snuggle. But with no more coordination than most people have when they're asleep, the best he can manage is to kind of thrash weakly at you." 

"Is 'snuggle' the most appropriate word, or are you trying to be diplomatic?" Jim wondered dryly. 

Stephen stifled a chuckle with one hand. "It's close enough. He just...wants you. Try rocking him; you're good at that. It worked for me." Stephen smiled at the memory. 

"Um...okay. Thanks. You know, I really don't think Blair'll mind when I tell him." 

Stephen shook his head. "He won't. Jim. About your little objection to what Brian calls the 'subtle self-outing approach..." 

"I just didn't want...you to have to..." 

"You were thinking that there must be some solution to this--that something has to be done--but you certainly weren't expecting the solution to involve any threat or inconvenience to me, were you?" 

Jim was quiet. 

"Rafe having trouble, you could handle, but--" 

"Stephen, dammit--" 

"It's all right, Jim. I know you weren't really _thinking_ that whatever 'has to be done' had to be something that would be no inconvenience to me; you just never seriously considered all the implications of Brian's and my moving in together. You didn't want to believe that I would have to take my share of risks. Like I said, you have that tendency...but more importantly, you also have a big blind spot when it comes to me." 

Jim nodded a little. "I guess so. Rafe told you what I said?" 

"He implied it. I could...guess the rest. One more thing before I leave--there's something we need to talk about while Brian is still at my place..." 

Jim sighed. "I know. Dad." 

"He's going to be apoplectic." 

"Yeah." 

They were both quiet for a minute. 

"And the sentinel thing?" Jim whispered. 

Stephen shook his head. "I don't know. He doesn't know about you and Blair. It might be easier on him to have one son who's a freak and one who's a queer, than two who are both." 

There was another quiet moment; there didn't really seem to be anything else to say about that consideration right then--too much else had to be dealt with first. "Well. G'night." Stephen kissed Jim's temple, then brushed his lips over Blair's hair. "I love you." He left quietly. 

* * *

Stephen slipped into the room, closing the door quietly, even though he knew Brian was awake. He padded over to the bed and started shucking his sweats and T-shirt. 

"How's Blair?" Brian wondered, propping himself on one elbow. 

"I think he'll be okay. He was thrashing around all over creation, but Jim will be able to calm him down." 

"Good." Brian pushed the covers down in invitation and Stephen climbed in next to him, moving into his friend's arms. They got comfortable, and Stephen, his head on Brian's shoulder, tilted his head up to look at the other man. 

"I wish I could see _you_ ," Brian murmured, smiling. 

Stephen smiled too. "I look the same as always." 

"I bet you look..." Brian's fingers traced Stephen's features. "You're smiling, and sleepy...your eyes are heavy..." 

"Trying to hypnotize me?" 

"No. Just building a picture in my head. That's what detectives do, you know." 

Stephen lifted a hand to trace Brian's cheekbone with a fingertip. "Pretty thing," he sighed softly. 

Rafe blinked. 

"Something wrong?" 

"Um, no, not...wrong, exactly. It's just that...H calls me that, sometimes. Kind of as a joke." 

Stephen smiled. "But kind of affectionately too, right?" 

"Well, yeah, but H is straight and everything, it's not..." Brian trailed off as he realized Stephen wasn't complaining. 

"I know that, too," Stephen murmured. "I'm...sorry if you feel like I'm invading your..." 

"No, I don't feel like that. It's just a little disquieting. I think you worry about trespassing on my private property a hell of a lot more than I worry about it." 

"Maybe," Stephen sighed, in what sounded like weariness this time. 

"Stephen...does this have anything to do with what we were talking about in the kitchen before dinner?" 

"By extension, I suppose, yeah, it does...I just told Jim that Blair wasn't having nightmares--that he was just too hyped by his schedule of late to stay still, even though he's so beat." 

"Yeah...and?" 

"I feel like I invaded his privacy." 

"Do you think he wouldn't have wanted you to tell Jim that?" 

"No, I know he wouldn't have minded...I just...it shouldn't be my call. It should be his." 

"If you _know_ he wouldn't have minded the same way you _know_ that he wasn't having nightmares, what's the difference? For all practical purposes, since you can sense that kind of thing, he did give you permission to tell Jim." 

"But it shouldn't happen because I sense he wouldn't mind. Even if he wouldn't, he should still have the opportunity to _say_ that it's all right, before I go..." 

"Whatever it is you're thinking, you didn't do that. You helped a friend, you reassured your brother. That's all." 

Stephen squirmed. 

"You're thinking of this in connection to...whether it's part of how well you operate at your job." 

"I think it kind of has to be. Blair told me he thinks the senses have...always been there to some degree, and that I..." 

"Yeah, he mentioned he was going to bring some of that stuff up. Now I see what you were being so intensely introspective about in the kitchen while we were making dinner. This work crisis is really bringing all that to your attention. So, tell me the problem." 

"What do you mean, _tell_? Isn't it obvious? I can...I _have_ been snooping inside people's heads and using what I found to manipulate them. That's why they all like me--I know just what they want. And I know just what they're afraid of, and I _use_ it." 

"Wouldn't you do that anyway? Doesn't everyone do that?" 

"Not everyone has this...weird ability--" 

"It's not weird." 

"Come on, Brian, any way you slice it I'm a pretty weird guy." 

"I know some people who'd say this thing you have for fucking your brother is a little on the odd side, but if you mean your sentinel abilities--" 

"That's even _weirder_ than the sex with Jim stuff." 

"You're special, Stephen. What did the bear in your dream say--or the guy who looked like you, or both--you're rare, and special, and an asset to the tribe." 

Stephen hid his face in Brian's chest. "I pick people's brains and use what I find to make money. And Blair wants me to get even _more_ into using the senses that way. I feel like a fucking con artist, me, Mister straight-shooter, king of the fair deal. Christ, do you know how all that makes me feel? If I haven't been being true to my own principles all these years and I didn't even fucking _know_ it?" 

"Stephen, calm down. Blair wants you to use the senses as who you are; that's all, and it's a pretty general injunction, doesn't even address your work specifically at all, though that's part of it. You've got to admit it's hard to go wrong with that advice." 

"For me, maybe. What about all the poor clueless bastards who are getting their minds rifled without their knowledge?" 

"Stephen..." Rafe was quiet a little while, with a soft sigh, thinking. Then he said "If you didn't have these senses, you'd be doing exactly the same thing, wouldn't you? Getting inside their heads? Fathoming what makes them tick and working with that? That's what businessmen do, isn't it?" 

"Yeah, but this is different, and don't try to tell me it's not." 

"That's exactly what I'm telling you. It's not. Jim's told you that he has a responsibility to use everything he's got in his work, whether that means using sentinel abilities or operating like I do, right?" 

"You and Jim are officers of the law. You use what you have to protect the innocent. You can't draw a direct parallel between Jim using his senses to trick criminals and me using mine to make illicit money for my company." 

"I'm not trying to draw a direct parallel; hear me out, here. Business people everywhere use what they have, _everything_ they have, to further their business. That includes honest ones, not just shysters. It's a given in that line of work. You're not doing anything that you haven't always done, Stephen. You just never knew why you had such an advantage before." 

"And now I know, and now that advantage is about a hundredfold larger." 

"Let me finish. You told me that you were proud of the work you do, that you had no regrets about it." 

"I *didn't* say that." 

"Okay, forget the regrets thing--but you told me that you always did your job with the ultimate goal being the greatest advantage of as many people as possible, and that you'd earned respect for that, from yourself as well as the people you deal with." 

Stephen shrugged a little. "Yeah. I said that, among other things." 

"You seem to think that you have some kind of an _unfair_ advantage. You have an advantage, yeah. But you've _always_ had an advantage. Not many people could do what you do, at least not as consistently as you've always managed to do it. These people know who they're dealing with--Stephen Ellison, the man who does the voodoo. They _know_ you've got an advantage, they'd know that with anybody who was any good, anyone with your reputation." 

"That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it." 

"Stephen, listen. Maybe the advantage you have could be considered unfair, but you don't _use_ it unfairly. You're worthy of being entrusted with this responsibility. You use what you have to make sure everything stays as fair as possible--that's what you've always done. You just have more to work with now." 

"Brian...I'm still not sure...how can I be _sure_ I'm worthy of that responsibility, that I'll continue to be worthy of it as time goes on? Power corrupts, you know. That's not just a trite phrase. I've seen it a million times in my job, and I know you have in yours, too." 

"It doesn't corrupt everybody. Not Jim, and not you." 

"Okay, let's say you're right, I'm the golden boy of justice. And I can be trusted. But you have no idea what it's _like_ being saddled with this kind of responsibility. It's seriously scary shit, Brian, and I'm not just talking about the business aspect of using the senses, here. You remember what I said earlier in the kitchen?" 

"Stephen, I know it's scary, but it's part of you, and it isn't going away. You need to do what Blair said--own it. Do that, and it won't own you. You know, Jim had to make the decision to accept that responsibility, too--he's had a hell of a time over the last few years, he and Blair have both told me. Jim's told me that sometimes he goes through stretches where he has to make that decision over again every day." 

Stephen smiled faintly. "He's told me he has to do that, too, but he was talking about something else." 

"In your dream--you remember what the guy who looked like you said?" 

"You're talking about my choices. Yeah, I remember." 

"You _have_ got choices, just like Jim--you just don't have the same ones." 

"I know. Deal...or die." 

"Don't creep yourself out, Stephen, you're having enough trouble without that kind of shit. What I meant was, you can choose to deal, choose to use what you have, own it, control it--or you can choose not to deal, and then it'll own you, control you, and God alone knows what'll happen to those people you're so interested in not shafting. What would happen to you...we really don't know, exactly. But Stephen--" Brian pulled Stephen around to where Stephen could see his face. "There's no need to be afraid of it. You aren't alone with it. You have all of us." 

"I know," Stephen said softly. "I know. But if what you're saying is true, about owning it--it still comes down to _me_ , one way or another. Only _I_ am going to be there _every_ moment of my life. Only I am going to be there for each and every instance of using the senses, for every choice that will have to be made. Only me. And that's a scary thing, Brian. In general, I mean, not just for sentinels. I suppose it's just that...the sentinel thing really pointed it up. Now I know...how terribly alone Jim must have felt. I knew, in a rational sense, of course, but I didn't understand. Now I do. Because not even Jim...can see all the things I see, or feel all the things they make me feel." 

"Tell us about them," Brian said softly, stroking his hair. "Help us learn as they happen, so we can see them too--so eventually, we'll be able to understand _without_ your telling us. So you *won't* be quite so alone." 

Stephen sighed in resignation at Brian's determination. "That could take quite a while." 

"That's okay. I'm in for the long haul. So are Jim and Blair." 

Stephen settled against him again. 

"You know," Brian said softly, still stroking Stephen, "I think that despite your being different from Jim in some ways--stronger in some ways, more delicate in others--you're still basically a sentinel. It's like Blair said; it's part of you, interconnected with all of you. In a way, your employees, the people you deal with every day that you try so hard to protect, or to see receive a fair deal in your business transactions--those people are your tribe." 

"Brings a whole new meaning to 'corporate culture'," Stephen noted, smiling a little. "Blair would have a field day." 

"Yeah, I'm waiting until I feel up to a session of explosive hypothesizing before I mention the idea to him. Anyway, you still protect. You still have that sense of responsibility Jim does. It's just expressed differently, with you." 

"And here I thought I was just a nice guy." 

"You are a nice guy. Which is one big reason I love you. Like I said, for a guy in your position, you're pretty easy to love." 

"Tell that to--" he cut himself off abruptly, with a frustrated exhalation, squirming around to hide his face in Brian's neck. 

Brian said quietly "Are you ever going to tell me who freaked out on you when you said you loved them?" 

"Maybe later. Like I said, maybe at Dana's." 

"It must have been pretty harsh." 

"Nah. I was just stupid." 

"You're never stupid when it comes to people." 

"I could disagree quite emphatically here, but I'm really tired, so I'll just say I must have been a masochist, then. Can we drop it?" 

"Yeah. For now." 

* * *

"Stephen?" 

Brian let his arm stroke over the cooling sheets next to him. No Stephen. He blinked, opening his eyes. He glanced around the dim room; still no Stephen. 

He got up, shivered a little, and pulled his robe on, heading for the door. 

He flipped a switch just outside his bedroom door and the crystal-hung chandelier that depended over the central staircase flared to brilliant life. He winced at the sudden light, realized that if Stephen had been out here he could have thrown him into a spike, and cursed to himself. "Some guide," he whispered, then proceeded down the hall, around all the corners to check each room. No Stephen. 

He started downstairs; since he didn't turn on the soft lights in wall sconces that lined the staircase, and he was still pretty groggy, he bumped into Stephen at the first landing. 

"Sorry, man. What are..." Stephen was motionless, his head tilted, listening. 

"Stephen." Brian grabbed Stephen's head and turned it to face him, then shook him a little, thinking he'd zoned on sound, but Stephen only went "Ssh," and pushed at Brian's hands, then went back to listening. 

"You don't hear it?" he whispered. 

"Of course I don't, Stephen. What is it?" 'Lord, he's going spooky on us again,' Brian thought worriedly. 

"It's in the walls." 

"In the walls?" Brian said faintly. "Don't tell me I need to get Orkin out here again. Damned old houses..." 

"That's not what I mean; it got louder when you turned on the light." 

"Louder when I...are you listening to the wiring?" Brian had read in Blair's stuff that Jim could hear the otherwise-inaudible hum of an activated electrical appliance, but the potential rather than active energy in a wiring system hadn't been mentioned anywhere. 

"I don't know. I don't know what that sounds like." 

"Well, I'm sure it's interesting, but maybe you should just tune it out and we'll wait until tomorrow to investigate, when we can ask Jim and Blair for help." 

Stephen shook his head. "Something's wrong." 

"Stephen...if you're not even sure of what you're hearing, how could you know if anything was wrong?" 

Stephen ignored him, moving along the hall. He paused. "Look." He was gazing up at the wall, up near the ceiling. 

"What?" 

"There's a connection to it here." 

"To what?" 

"Whatever's wrong. Can you see it?" 

"What does it look like, Stephen?" Brian tried. 

"Like it sounds," Stephen murmured, then kept moving. Suddenly he paused, touched the wall--then, inexplicably, turned and touched Brian, sliding his hand into the collar of the silk robe and pushing it down his shoulder a little. His eyes were aimed toward Rafe, but Brian couldn't see if they were focused or not; it was too dark. 

"Stephen..." he murmured in real concern. 

"It's all right, Brian. I just...need to...check this out..." he turned and proceeded toward the front section of the ground floor. Occasionally he would stop, tilt his head, and breathe deeply a couple of times. Then he kept going. 

He stopped suddenly, his hand on the wall. "What's here?" 

"There's a utility room on the other side of that wall." 

"Something is...broken. Look." 

"It just looks like a wall to me, Stephen." 

"There are places all over where the sound looks wrong--but not like this." 

"Where the sound looks wrong?" 

"It tastes strange, too. Like...something missing. Think of bread with no salt in it." 

"Stephen--" 

" _Burnt_ bread with no salt in it," Stephen muttered, moving quickly around the corner and into the utility room. Rafe followed posthaste, banging into the corner and swearing in the dimness, then continuing after Stephen. 

"Stephen, it's almost pitch black in here. Can I turn the light on?" 

"Give me a minute." He moved across the room; Brian could see his silhouette against a couple of small lights that shone from behind two closed breaker panels, and little red indicator lights glowing on the furnace and a couple of other appliances. 

"Come here." 

"Say something so I don't trip and kill myself." 

"You'll be fine if you just walk straight ahead--have you got a tool kit in here?" 

"Why?" 

"I need a screwdriver." 

" _I_ need to turn the light on." 

"Okay, okay--you can turn it on now." 

When the light came on, Stephen was crouched beside a water heater. "Okay, I don't need a screwdriver. Look. You can see this even with the light on." 

Brian came over, passing two hatches in the floor that led to old cisterns; they could still be used to supply the kitchen and the downstairs bathroom in an emergency. Brian went down on one knee next to Stephen. He was right; the little flashing gold light spitting irregularly out from under the bottom of the water heater could be seen even through the overhead bulb's glare. 

"Can we turn this over without draining it?" 

"Not likely, but I'm not fooling with that tonight anyway. This heater's the only electric one in the house--the others are gas--and it only supplies the big downstairs bathroom; I'll shut off the power to it." He got up and went to the relevant circuit breaker board, flipped the panel open and pulled the switch. The spitting light--and the tiny hissing sizzle he now realized he could just hear over the hum of the other appliances in the room--died. 

Then he turned back to Stephen. "What exactly did you sense?" he asked softly. 

"I'm not much of an electrician," Stephen said, getting to his feet with a grimace. "But I think it was a massive short. It was connecting, all right, but the wire was physically broken and separated. The connection was through a spark jumping across the gap--like usual, but a damn big gap in this case." 

"And a damn big--and dangerous--spark. And...you sensed that. From listening to the wiring up on the top floor." 

"I don't know. There's a...an energy that surrounds everything, that breaks down smaller and smaller, the farther down you go. It's contiguous in the case of electrical systems. Everything, every piece of matter has it, some stronger than others. I wasn't surprised when I felt it around things like appliances, but...when I started hearing it and seeing it...no, Jim, it's all right. Go back to sleep, I'll tell you in the morning." He gave Brian a brief look of apology and said "He wondered what we were doing wandering around down here." 

"Um, yeah," Rafe said distractedly. "So...this...field..." 

"The house has one. Each of the...the walls and the pieces of furniture have one, the nails each have one, the...well, you get the idea. You have one, I have one. But they're all...they connect and separate again when things are moved in relation to each other, do you follow?" 

"You're talking about EM fields." 

"Yeah, I think maybe I am, but I bet Blair will have a way to check and make sure." 

"I bet he will, too. So, the EM fields of the electrical systems of the house stand out more to you than the...the sort that everything has." Brian winced at the inept description, wishing he'd paid more attention in his physics classes. 

"Yeah, though it's... _integrated_ with the one the house has by itself, if you see what I mean. And..." 

"And something wasn't right." 

"A lot of things aren't right, but you've told me that this place has been rewired God knows how many times; you've probably got a lot of dead-end leads and circuit interruptions and what have you behind these walls. This one...smelled bad." 

"Could you just have been smelling the burnt insulation? Jim's been able to pick out some damned faint odors--" 

Stephen shook his head. "I can smell the burnt wire _now_ , but I couldn't until I came in here. That's not what I mean." 

Brian considered him a moment, then said "Could it have...smelled wrong, sounded wrong, looked wrong, whatever--because it was the only screwy part of the...the field that could have been dangerous? Is that why you had to get up and find it?" 

Stephen shook his head helplessly. "I didn't have to, I wanted to. I wanted to _know_ , what the...what the weird thing was, and why it bothered me. Well, now I know what it was. I just don't know why it should have bothered me. I didn't know it was dangerous until we got down here and found it." 

They just gazed at each other across the dusty room for a moment, both gazes wondering, entreating, asking questions, having no answers. 

"Come on," Brian finally said, coming over to take Stephen's hands and kiss him. "Let's go back to bed and dump this on Blair in the morning." 

"I'm sure he'll love that," Stephen murmured as they exited the room, Brian flipping the light switch off. 

* * *

Actually, what Blair mostly didn't love was the timing of this little announcement. "That you could tell directions from the planetary EM field didn't floor me quite so much because Jim can do that too, under certain circumstances. Hell, I've met non-sentinels who seemed to be able to do it, or something like it. But this is totally new, man..." he sighed, pensive and worried. "Damn, I wish I didn't have so much shit to do this week. Jim, can you spare me the rest of the week at the station? What have you got up?" 

Jim passed him a freshly cream-cheesed bagel and picked up his own juice. "I really don't know, Chief. I've been doing busywork for too long; the next big case up, I'm due for. Which means I may need you for something other than paperwork." 

"Maybe H and I could convince Simon to let us pull it instead," Rafe offered, setting the coffee carafe down on the table and sitting next to Stephen. 

"He knows about the senses, remember," Jim reminded him. "If it's touchy enough, there'll be no getting out of it. Not that you're not good, I mean--" Jim uncharacteristically tried to be diplomatic, even if belatedly. 

"That's it, lord it over us mere mortals, Ellison," Rafe chuckled. "If I had your senses I'd make you look sick." 

"Yeah, dream on. Anyway, Blair--I know how busy you are, but I really don't know if I can spare you," he said, obviously concerned for Blair, but against the wall on this. "You know this ride-along thing will only fly--since you're kind of taking the place of an official partner--if you can do the job. When the U starts taking too much of your time--" 

"This isn't the U, it's _Stephen_!" 

" _We_ know that. You want to try to explain it to the chief? We're hanging on to this by the skin of Simon's teeth. We've got to try to keep a low profile, and you vanishing for too long at a time--and what with Stephen you've been out a lot lately--" 

Blair sighed. "I hate this. I _hate_ this." 

"Me too," Stephen said miserably. "This may be messing with your head, Jim, and screwing Brian's social life to hell--with a pretty serious threat to his professional life on the horizon--but it's going to _kill_ Blair eventually. I hate that I'm responsible." 

"Shut up, Stephen," Brian said, and bit into a slice of toast. 

"What he said," Blair concurred. "Stephen, I'm gonna bitch about being busy and tired, it's like oxygen to a grad student, but you better never think that I'm not totally thrilled you turned out to be a sentinel. Yeah, it trashed a bunch of my suppositions, but those were shoddy scientific work anyway. This has me back on track--" 

"If you live long enough to take advantage of it." 

"I've still got friends at the U who can cover my ass if necessary. And I've got a big roommate who can feed me and make me sleep by force, and occasionally has..." 

"Force?!" Jim said, looking injured. "I'm hurt, I'm hurt--" 

"You're full of it. Okay, not force, but you have a way of not taking no for an answer at times." 

"Only when he's scared for you," Rafe pointed out. "It's the other way around the rest of the time with you two." 

"Shut up, Rafe," Jim said, and bit into his own bagel. 

"Look, one way or another, I've got a class," Blair said, stuffing the rest of his bagel in his mouth and grabbing a bottle of juice out of the refrigerator. "I'll catch up with you at the station, guys--" 

Stephen took a look at Jim as though listening to him speak, then reached out and seized Blair by the hair--very gently--as he tried to get back past. "Hey," Blair protested. Jim was folding sliced boiled eggs into a roll of bread, taking away the bottle of juice and handing Blair a pint carton of lowfat milk instead. "You need some protein," he said. "Remember when you passed out in line at the bank and the doctor made you eat meat every day for a week?" 

"For Gods' sake, that wasn't starvation, it was--" 

"Acute anemia," Jim reminded him. "And he said you weren't getting enough protein." 

"It was a one-time thing. I have a very strong constitution." 

"I know you do; I just want to keep it that way." 

"Man, that stuff is like so full of cholesterol and nitrites and--" he cut off his own bitching by tearing a bite out of the egg sandwich as Stephen released him and he started out again. "But thanks for giving a shit, anyway." 

"Don't let it go to your head, cute stuff. We've got ulterior motives, namely not knowing what the hell we'd do without you," Brian called after him, grinning. 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah--stuff it, Brian." Blair's parting comment floated back to the kitchen as they heard the door close behind him. There was a pause as concentrated munching continued; finally Rafe said quietly "So did he get some real sleep last night?" 

Jim looked up at Stephen and winked. "Once I...got him calmed down a little, he slept like a baby." Stephen smiled back at him and returned his attention to his food. 

"Well, *that's* a relief. Stephen's not the only one who's been wondering how long Blair's got before he's on his lips in some obscure corner of campus or something," Brian said. He got up and grabbed the phone, flipping through the Yellow Pages next to it. "I'm going to start making the calls I need to about the pool-building thing, so Jim, when you see H tell him I'll be just a little late and ask him to cover for me." 

"We both will," Jim assured him, starting to clear the table. 

Stephen was checking his watch. "Oh, hell--it's later than I thought. I've got to get going--" 

"I'm parked behind you, Stephen," Jim reminded him. 

"Oh, yeah." 

Jim put down the dishes he was holding and fumbled for his keys. "Let me go move the truck. _This_ is one problem I'm not worried about not having to deal with any more..." 

"Hey," Rafe complained. "They didn't _have_ garages when this place was built." 

"No, but they had stables. Which can be converted." 

"Only if I'm willing to put a driveway right down the middle of the side yard and halfway to hell out back there where the stable is." 

"So the stable is now a storage shed." 

"You should talk; you haven't even got a shed, much less a garage." 

"No, I've got a basement. But if I had the option, a garage would definitely come before a swimming pool." 

"You can store your tools and spare parts in a shed, but you can't swim in a garage," Brian said reasonably, pleased with this rationale, despite the fact that it made no sense whatsoever. "Not any garage I'd be caught parking my car in, anyway. Are you gone, Stephen?" 

"Yeah." Stephen leaned over to kiss Rafe. "I'll see you this afternoon. Coming, Jim?" 

"Hold up." Jim snared Stephen as the latter was about to head for the door. "I want a kiss, and just in case I should get carried away...mm...okay, let's go." 

* * *

>Pt. Three: "I Get Confused, 'Cause I Don't Know Where I Stand; and Then  
you Smile--and Hold My Hand...Love is Kind of Crazy With a Spooky Sentinel  
Like You..."

* * *

A few days later, Rafe and Brown were coming through the door of Angelica's; Rafe hadn't been in for a while, though H had. 

"Bet they all forgot what you look like, in here," Henri chuckled as they hung their raincoats up. "You sure about this, Bri?" 

"Yeah. Like I told you, we've got time, but it'll help to start setting up the support structure before Stephen and I come clean over this to the larger world," Brian said. "As clean as we're going to come, at least." 

"Do gay folks always talk like that?" H grinned. 

Brian kicked him subtly. "Ow. Hey," H complained, doing a brief one-footed pain dance. 

"Hey, stranger!" One of the bartenders waved over a long planter full of leafy vegetation. Rafe grinned and waved back, and he and H stepped down from the entry and started across the carpeted floor. 

Not quite a restaurant and not quite a bar, Angelica's was one of those multi-tiered--socially speaking--establishments that depended largely on convenient centralized location for its mixed clientele; it was the kind of medium-priced place where you might see the occasional family having lunch or an early dinner, or you might walk in some evening and the room would be wall-to-wall flamers. The next day might see an influx of business suits and college kids, or maybe a PFLAG group out for a drink after the meeting. It was this "Come on in, we don't care, we're neutral territory" atmosphere, combined with laid-back, restful-on-the-eyes surroundings, and the fact that it wasn't a damn nationwide chain place, that Brian and H had both liked enough about it to make it a regular lunch spot. 

"We ever bring Sandburg here, Bri?" 

"Um, I haven't. Why?" 

"I was just thinking; what with all the fried stuff they serve, he might end up eating the decor instead." He batted a long green frond out of his path. H loved his little buddy Hairboy, and showed it in typical male fashion--by flipping him constant shit, even if he wasn't necessarily in the room at the time. 

Brian grinned and didn't reply as they came up to the bar and had seats. 

"Well, well, well, look who's here!" 

"What'd you do, Henri, promise him a hot date?" 

"Hardly, that's likely the reason we haven't seen his face in weeks. What's up, Rafe?" the bartender, Sean, grinned. "Well, we know what's up--what's his name?" there was good-natured chuckling and a few more waves; some of the regulars who hadn't met Brian began to look interested. 

"Hi, Sean. My usual, if you remember what it is, and his name is Stephen." 

"If I remember? I'm insulted. But not too insulted to pump you for information." Sean, a tall blond with shoulder-length hair and a faint British-Isles sounding accent, turned to tap orders into the computer. "Your usual as well, H?" 

"That'd be great, man." 

"So how'd you meet this 'Stephen'? How old is he? What's he do? Is he anywhere near as good looking as your last guy? And what does he have that I don't?" 

"I work with his brother, he's about my age, he's an executive with Martin, Blake and Ellison, he's gorgeous, and he has a certain...je ne sais quoi, that became apparent to me when he slipped in the shower and landed on me." 

A soft chorus of woo-woo noises started up, making Brian grin and H chuckle and slap Rafe's shoulder, along with a couple of other people who'd meandered over to exchange nods and greetings with Brian. 

"Sooo, he's perfect, eh?" grinned Sean. "So what's the fly in the ointment this time? There always is one with you, as I recall." Sean set about refilling a couple of coffee mugs. 

"He's Stephen Ellison." 

One of the business suits spilled his coffee. 

Sean's brow furrowed as a few more people experienced incredulous reactions. Stephen had not been lying when he said he was a known activist and philanthropist--known for his stands in interviews, his sponsorship of certain local organizations and chapters, and other such, of course, rather than for parade-marching or direct advocacy projects. 

"Stephen _Jeremy_ Ellison?" Sean inquired. 

"That's him." 

"Oh my Lord. My boy, you do _not_ go for the easy ones," Sean said, shaking his head. "I knew he supported allocating city funds for protective security at gay rallies, and I think I heard his name in connection with a gay teen center that's trying to get some private funding to expand...but I thought he was mostly the darling of the greenies. I didn't think he was..." 

"Well, he is. Bi, though. Not a through-and-through queer like you and me." 

"Ouch. That's _another_ fly," Sean opined, and had to excuse himself briefly to go take another order. 

"Not to me," Brian said softly. And received a couple of answering smiles. 

"Wow," said a woman in a beige skirt suit sitting at a table near the bar, with a young man Brian and Henri happened to know was her son. "Brian, you're a cop. How does a guy get to someplace like where either of you are when...when you've got _that_ going against you?" 

"You pick your battles, Andrea," Rafe said, in all seriousness. "And you're _damned_ choosy about them." 

"Speaking of careful," came a murmur from behind them, and Rafe turned on his stool. He found himself on the receiving end of a toothy smile. "I seem to remember you telling _me_ not to go crowing in public? At least while I was still in high school?" 

"Aaron!" Brian held his arms out and received a quick hug. "Where the hell have you been?" 

"At Gonzaga, finishing my degree, remember?" 

"Yeah, I do--God, it's great to see you! Sit down. H, this is Aaron Josephs, you remember hearing me mention him. Aaron, my partner on the force, Henri Brown." 

"Call me H," Henri invited, shaking the proffered hand that was nearly as richly colored as his own. The tall young man climbed carefully to the stool next to Rafe as a waitress brought out lunch, asking Aaron if she should have his order brought here instead of to his table; he glanced, again seeming uncertain, at Rafe; Brian told the waitress yes, and then focused his attention back on Aaron. "So...how's it been going?" 

"Any better, you mean?" The young man smiled again. "Yeah. Gonzaga's not the most cosmopolitan college in the world, but it's a hell of a lot better than a Southtown high school. I never got beat up once." 

H made a stifled noise; Rafe got a little pink, and Aaron said "Did he ever tell you he saved my life?" 

H shook his head. "You mean 'cause he was your Big Brother and helped get your head straight about the gay thing?" 

"I mean because he shot the lock off the door of a van about half a dozen fag-haters had me in for the purpose of seeing that I didn't continue to pollute their air. Well, they rushed him..." 

"And he took 'em out," H guessed, eyeing Brian sidelong. Brian got pinker. H reflected, amused, how even though Brian--with a tan--was medium-dark as plain white guys went, he still blushed like crazy sometimes. 

"It was while I was still a patrol cop," Brian added. "I noticed the ruckus, I did my job." 

"He had three of 'em down by the time his partner rolled in with some more backup; the rest of 'em just gave up after that. The only shot he fired was to get the door open when they wouldn't obey the order to open it and come out." 

"They weren't armed--not with guns or knives," Brian explained. "The shot spooked them; they were pretty panicked. Big, some of them, but none of them over eighteen; they got juvie sentences. Murderous bastards." 

H shook his head. "Rafe, my man...you jes' keep unfolding like a flower." 

"X-Files addict," Brian said, thrusting a thumb over his shoulder at Henri. "In case you couldn't tell." 

Over the course of lunch, it came out that Rafe had saved Aaron's life in more ways than that one; Aaron was a shy and sensitive youngster--H couldn't help thinking of him that way, though he was twenty-three now--slim build, very bright. He was also gay, black and Jewish. Henri kept his mouth shut about it, but he didn't see how the poor kid had made it alive through high school in Southtown at all, though if he had Rafe as a Big Brother, that went a long way toward explaining it. 

People kept stopping by to say hi to Brian and be introduced to Aaron, who, as it turned out, had just got back into town and had come by specifically hoping to bump into Brian; he didn't feel comfortable about seeking him out at the police station, and had mislaid his address. "I called Carol," he explained. "I still had her number in my address book. She said you eat lunch here a lot. She offered to just put me in touch with you, but I..." 

"You always have been too worried about 'bothering' me,' Brian said disapprovingly. "What do you think Big Brothers are for?" 

"Well, you're not my Big Brother now," Aaron pointed out; Rafe batted that aside. "Once a Big Brother and all that," he disagreed. "H and I have to get back to work, but you're not getting out of this without giving me all your current stats--where you're staying, phone numbers, all that. Here..." he dug out a couple of cards, one of which he handed to Aaron for the younger man to write the information on, and the other of which he started writing on the back of himself. "I want to hear all about school; we'll get together soon, but I've got kind of a personal situation going on at the moment, and I'm going to be staying with...with my..." 

"Your Stephen Ellison," Aaron chuckled. "The whole place is talking about it, if you hadn't noticed." 

"Actually, I had," Brian admitted. "We're not really out to the world yet, but this place is different. No one's going to be hanging around here who'd have any serious problem." 

"But he does know, right? That you told your friends here," Aaron said, in a mock-scolding tone. 

"Of course. What did I always tell you?" 

"It's a personal choice," Aaron smiled. "You can out yourself, but you can't out anyone else--" 

"--not even your lover, unless he says you can," Brian finished. The two traded cards. 

* * *

"That kid," H was chortling as they made their way back to the car, "has a HUGE crush on you." 

"He did have," Brian admitted easily. "Happens a lot when somebody saves your ass from a potentially fatal beating. Especially when you're only sixteen years old." 

"It's more than that, man." 

"I was there for him, when he needed somebody about as badly as it's possible to need somebody," Brian said quietly. "He's a smart kid, H. He knows why he was feeling the things he was back then." 

"Looks to me like he's feelin' a few of 'em still, but whatever you say, man. So how you think it went? In general, back there." 

Rafe sighed. "Ask me in a week, after the trickle-down has had a chance to happen. Better yet, ask Stephen in a week. The only ones I'm worried about are the suits--not Andrea Barclay, or her kid, or anyone like that, but there were a few I didn't know. I warned Stephen, but he wanted me to go ahead with it." 

"Ellison got any kind of a problem with you and his brother doin' the wild thing?" 

Rafe chuckled and shook his head. "No. He hasn't got any problem at all." 

"How about big Daddy Ellison?" 

Rafe shook his head again, in concern this time. "He's gonna have a fit, I'm sure. But Jim and Stephen both assure me that William is a champion at seeing only what he wants to see, and believing only what he wants to believe, both in general and about his sons. He still doesn't know about Jim and Blair, and they've been living together how many years now?" 

"Yeah, but they haven't been breakin' springs that whole time." 

"You wouldn't have known it by watching them." 

"Good point." 

"Anyway, Stephen...he thinks it might help to tell William in public, when we tell everybody else, or something like that. He and Jim are going to have to stage that conversation pretty carefully." 

"Kee-rist, I can just imagine." H unlocked Brian's door and opened it, gave Brian a casual steadying hand as he slid in, then locked the door and closed it behind him, moving around to the driver's side. 

As he got in, Brian, with a smirk, and a glow in his brilliant hazel eyes, said "All right, H, I can't stand it any more. Why do you always do that?" 

"Do what?" 

"Hand me into the car like I'm your date or something. Is it some kind of passive-aggressive straight thing, or are you just that hard up?" 

H grinned slowly at him, then reached over and messed up his careful coiffure. 

"Hey!" Brian swatted at him. "Get off the hair, man! 'I work hard on my hair, and he hits my hair'," he added in a Brooklyn accent, grinning as he fumbled for a comb. 

"I do it 'cause you _let_ me, you pretty, pretty thing, you," Henri answered him, also still grinning, and started the car. "Same reason I always open doors for you. Hell, maybe I _am_ just that hard up." 

"Asshole." 

"I'd'a pulled your chair out for you at lunch, but we sat at the bar." 

"Good thing for you, too." 

"Hell, you know you love me, man," H was chuckling. "'F'I wasn't straight you wouldn't even look at Stephen." 

"If you weren't straight, you'd be on your knees begging me for a date," Brian countered. 

"Bri, my pretty thing, you ever look down in front of you and see me there on my knees, you're gonna be the one doing the begging. Though you won't have to work much at it." 

Rafe flushed suddenly. "H! Jesus. Don't mess with my head, I've got enough problems right now." But he couldn't help smiling. As he'd noted previously, H showed how much he loved you by flipping you shit. Besides, Rafe liked it when he flirted with him. It was a straight-guy thing; H knew he could flirt safely with his partner, with no chance of misunderstanding. And it did usually cheer Rafe up. The sound of Henri's laughter filled the car as they headed back toward the station. As though reading Brian's mind, he said "Jus' tryin' to brighten your day, man." 

"You always do, H. But stay away from the hair." 

* * *

Rafe's hairstyle was languishing under a black knitted cap a couple of days later. He and Megan were dressed in tight black stealth gear, crouched behind a crossbrace in the cargo hold of a closed-cabin thirty-foot vessel, jockeying for space with their equipment belts, listening to their teeth vibrate with the engine, and trying to think innocuous, cargolike thoughts. 

"Megan, I'm telling you, I feel something." 

"Dead-set, mate, it's my skinny arse. Shove over a bit?" 

"No, I mean, I..." 

Megan turned her head--barely--in the confined space. "Something up? What's got you squirming around like that?" 

"Stephen. Something's wrong." 

Megan frowned. "Guide radar?" 

"Yeah." 

"Bad?" 

"I'm not sure." 

"But he needs you." 

"I think so." 

Megan considered. "Will Sandy do?" 

"He'll have to. You and I are stuck in this bulkhead for the duration. But we can't radio without our signal being picked up--" he trailed off. 

"Jim," they both murmured at once. Megan went on "Did he say he'd be keeping an ear on us?" 

"Not specifically, but under the circumstances, I think he'd feel we were justified in using his buzzword." 

"I just hope he's dialed up." 

"He usually is under these circumstances." 

"True." Megan took a breath. "Here's hoping he's in earshot, and the engine noise doesn't interfere too much. James Joseph Ellison, this is Connor; focus your hearing on me. James Joseph Ellison, this is Connor. Focus your hearing on me. James Joseph Ellison, this is Connor. Focus your hearing on me." She looked back at Rafe. "That usually does it, if he's where he can hear me at all. He told me to repeat it three times to give him a moment to get a bead, if he picks me up at once, and to use his middle name, so he'll know I'm trying to get his attention and not just saying his name." Rafe nodded, and she continued "Rafe and I are in position, nothing to report; but Rafe has something to tell you. Focus your hearing on his voice." 

"Jim, this is Rafe. My guide radar is pinging like a xylophone. Something is up with Stephen. You need to get hold of Blair and tell him to go check. Stephen should be in his office all morning. That's all." 

"We'll repeat at ten-minute intervals until the job comes down," Megan said. "Sometimes, he's not heard me 'til the second or third repetition." 

"Have there been times you used his buzzword and it never got his attention at all?" 

"Never unless he was too far out of range, and he should be aboard that Coast Guard cutter no more than a mile or two behind us. He _always_ manages to hear Captain Banks, though." 

"Yeah, well. It's good to be the Captain," Rafe smiled, shrugging. 

"So I've heard," Megan agreed. "Ow. Bloody, watch your boot heel." 

"Sorry." 

* * *

"Blair Sandburg," Blair said genially, strolling up to one of the desks in the plush outer office. "I'm here to see Stephen." 

The man he addressed just looked at him blankly. 

"You _are_ one of his assistants...?" Blair prompted. 

The man gave him the once-over, then turned and tapped his computer keys. "I don't see an appointment for a...Mister Sandburg, was it?" 

"He just called down to the gate to have me admitted," Blair said, mustering patience. "It's personal business. I work with his brother at the police department." 

"You're a police officer," the man said, as a skeptical statement rather than a question. 

"I'm a consultant with the department. Would you just let him know I'm here?" 

At that point, the set of double doors, at the opposite side of the broad room from the direction Blair had entered by, opened; a young blonde woman, hair in a chignon, wearing a grey-and-pink skirt suit, stepped through into the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. She saw Blair and said "You must be Mister Sandburg?" 

"Yes, I must be," Blair said, smiling winningly. "And you must be Grace Prescott, Stephen's chief assistant." He walked over and shook the hand she held out. "Call me Blair." 

"Call me Grace," the woman smiled. "Stephen's just finishing up with Mr. Kankaredes and Ms. Oliphant. He said you could go on in." She nodded pleasantly and proceeded across the room to another double door, leading to what was presumably her own office. She didn't seem rude or dismissive, just busy; she had her free hand curled around something Blair couldn't quite make out, small enough to fit inside her palm. 

"Thanks," Blair murmured, and sidled through the open door, pulling it silently shut behind him. It was the kind of door that reminded a person of physics class--the fact that weight was one thing and mass was another. It moved on silent hydraulic hinges; he couldn't have slammed it if he'd tried. A darkly stained, dense wood, it went well with the rest of the decor, Blair thought in wry amusement. 

Stephen seemed to like greenery. Either he kept a bowlful of complimentary antihistamines for those guests unfortunate in the mold allergy department, or the greenery was among the best fakes Blair had ever seen. Stephen also seemed to like little tabletop fountains and a wide variety of styles in chairs and sofas, with various levels of depth and cushiness, and partially screened conversation areas, with plush runner carpets helping lend different motifs and color schemes from one area to another. The walls bore original paintings from a couple of artists Blair recognized, mostly nature scenes, as well as hanging art from different cultures, in several different media; over a mostly deep-blue-and-black corner hung a mural-sized representation, done in meticulous oils, of the Veil Nebula. A wide-screen entertainment center took up one of the narrower walls of the rectangular, multi-tiered room. It was a lot like walking into the lobby of an exclusive resort hotel, but cozier in terms of atmosphere. 

Stephen was perched on the front edge of a broad, dark mahogany desk--the sort that contains numerous cubbies, pull-outs and special attachments to make an extensive computer setup more convenient, not to mention far more aesthetically pleasing when particular components were not in use. Two people were just standing up from padded hardwood-and-leather chairs in front of him; he rose, too, all of them laughing decorously, at what Blair had no idea. One of them, a tall black woman with a Jamaican accent, said "What a silly boy you are, Stephen Ellison!" 

"Now, Corinne," the man, a rotund, aging fellow in a charcoal business suit, admonished her. "Don't embarrass the boy. After all, he's just solved our personnel budget problem for the next two years." 

"Indeed he has. It has been a very great pleasure doing business with you, Stephen," Corinne said, shaking Stephen's hand warmly. "I would love to invite you to one more lunch before we go, but Walter and I must catch our plane. I hope to see you again some time soon?" 

"I'm sure we'll run up against each other," Stephen smiled. "I do tend to get around." For some reason, that made them both laugh again; Blair supposed it was an in-joke. Stephen added "By the way--Corinne Oliphant, Walter Kankaredes, this is my friend Blair Sandburg. He works with my brother Jim at the Cascade police department, and I guess he's dropping by to drag me off to lunch?" Stephen inquired at Blair, raising his eyebrows toward the younger man. 

"Uh," Blair said, suddenly fixed by the gazes of the two, "yeah, that's right. Hi there, um, both of you, nice to meet you." 

"Nice to meet you too, Blair," Corinne said, smiling; Walter just nodded to him in a distracted, semi-avuncular fashion, and the two of them took their leave. 

"Wow," Blair said, gazing around himself as he advanced into the room; Stephen wandered around the desk--a substantial trip, for the circumnavigation of a piece of furniture--and plopped into his wingback leather desk chair, swinging it back and forth idly, grinning at Blair's wide-eyed expression as the younger man wondered "Your house looks like a cave next to this, man. Why don't you just live _here_? " 

"The bathroom's too small," Stephen explained. "Like it?" 

"Shit. I knew you were...well...but when I saw the building, and now this...I can see why you're so paranoid about holding your end up. If they're showering this kind of thing on you, it must be a hell of a big end." 

"It's just part of the job. Pretty over-the-top for my own taste, really, but the different little nooks and stuff come in handy. I need to make a wide variety of people feel comfortable; that's how I conduct negotiations. The other partners and presidents and VP's and department heads have their own methods. So you'd never have known I had a big end just by hanging out with me?" Stephen wondered, raising his Spock eyebrow and smirking. 

"Well, not to sound like an anti-bourgeoisie neo-Marxian intellectual snot or anything, but no, I never would have known just from hanging out with you. No, I mean, I knew, I just didn't really grasp the...no wonder that assistant of yours looked at me funny. Half-dead flannel and old jeans a size too small don't fit the background scheme around this whole _building_ , but this is..." 

Stephen made a face. "Douglas?" 

"The one with the really short red hair?" 

"That's him. He _does_ hate it when the world around him clashes with itself. Believe it or not, being my assistant--or Blake's or Schroeder's or Martin's, even more so--is nearly as big a deal in terms of throw-aroundable weight, at least inside the MBE Cascade offices, as being one of our assistant VP's. Douglas is a little full of himself sometimes." 

"Then why'd you hire him?" 

"Because he's a good assistant, with a good resume. He's an excellent candidate to have his own office and his own assistant someday. But if he gives you any more grief he's out on his ass." 

"Come on, Steve, don't go _firing_ people on my account." 

"Oh, I wouldn't fire him. I'd just give him to someone who likes having snotty assistants, and believe me, there are plenty around to choose from who'd love to have him. We've also got a couple of assistant VP's who could use someone in their outer office who _knows_ he's the shit, and could subtly drive a few pointers into their heads. Did you really want to have lunch, or did Brian just ask you to check up on me because he's busy on a bust, or in a meeting or whatever?" 

The abrupt change of subject brought Blair up short. "Um. I...wanted to, yeah..." 

"After Brian..." Stephen leaned forward, gazing intently at Blair. "C'mere." 

A bit trepidatiously, Blair made his way around the big, gleaming desk, and Stephen stood up, taking one of his hands, then touching his face lightly, his head tilting in a familiar attitude. "After someone called you and asked you to," he said slowly, "because he's...he's on a case somewhere. He had some kind of odd feeling, and he wanted to come himself, but...he's staking out...I'm just getting a lot of water. Smells like...like he's not that thrilled to be where he is right now. Maybe somewhere at the marina?" 

"Yeah," Blair said, blinking owlishly. "Well, something like that, I'm not allowed to give away details of operations. But, man...that is _amazing_." 

"I aim to please," Stephen said softly, and Blair began to become even more taken aback when the hand touching his cheek started to curve around the back of his neck and pull him closer--not at the action itself, of course--but Stephen's expression, and tone of voice... 

Before Blair could get a word out, Stephen suddenly paused, cocked his head, dropped his hand, and scanned the room. His eyes focused on the corner next to the massive wall unit behind the desk, then rose to the ceiling. He snapped his fingers with an Oh-yeah-nearly-forgot expression and wordless murmur, then turned to glance at his desk. He made a long arm and picked up a crystal paperweight--or knickknack, considering it wasn't sitting on any paper--and tossed it twice in his hand, weighing it. 

"Uh...Stephen...?" 

Stephen turned and threw, all in one motion. Blair cringed as the heavy thing crashed into a plant hanging in a basket. There was a metallic clank and the weight rebounded, bouncing off in the direction of one of the occasional tables that held a little fountain. The basket fell--but only so far. A black cable was attached to it, disappearing into the plant's ferny green fronds. "Must be too much coffee," Stephen was saying offhandedly as he strolled toward it, snagging a chair, similar to the two in front of his desk, on his way over to the corner. "I've just been dropping things all day." He got up to stand on the chair, grabbed the cable with both hands and yanked. There was a metallic zzzzap and a small shower of sparks. "Ouch, dammit," Stephen muttered, and yanked again. The basket came free, leaving a narrow cable hanging, metal intestines dangling, from the ceiling. Stephen got down from the chair and came back over to the desk, setting the basket thereon. He rummaged in it a moment, poking in the plant dirt. Well, _that_ one was real, at least. Stephen said "You know, they must not think too highly of our security. You could choke a horse with this thing. Brian says there are covert surveillance cameras these days you could hide in a light bulb, that aren't that expensive or hard to get...here we are." A small remote camera, about the size of a pager, emerged grimily. "Hope it didn't hurt the plant." 

"Stephen, Jesus!" 

"Not hardly. He wouldn't have forgotten to do something about the camera." 

"When did you--how--" 

"This morning. There were three microphones; I got them all before my first appointment. There was one in the bathroom, for God's sake. Who'd wanna listen to me piss and wash my hands that bad? Not to mention do anything else. Near as I can tell, though, there's only the one camera. I don't know if it has its own microphone; I don't know much about this kind of equipment." 

"Exactly when were you planning to tell someone your office was bugged?" 

"I had things to do, Blair." 

"It didn't look like you knew where the camera was until just now." 

"I was just trying to find it when Douglas told me my eight a.m. had arrived. After that I was distracted." 

"Let me get this straight. You knew there was one camera, but you didn't know where. Am I right?" 

"Yes." Stephen was blinking at him in what looked like puzzlement. 

"And the microphones?" 

"Now _they_ were pretty obvious." 

"Obvious how?" Blair asked desperately, seizing Stephen by the shoulders. "Which senses detected them?" 

Stephen just shook his head. "How should I know?" 

"Stephen." Blair took a deep breath and let it whoosh out, then another. "Work with me, man. With Brian trying to intercept a four-million-dollar contraband exchange, I'm all you've got." 

"Blair, it's okay," Stephen said gently, and when Blair looked up, the cocky stranger had been replaced by his brother-in-law. "I've done that before--known things without knowing how I know." 

"So...you *don't* know how long those devices were in place before you discovered them? You don't know whether they just showed up?" 

Stephen shook his head. "For all I know, they've been there quite a while, and I only...noticed them this morning. Or they could have been placed there last night." 

" _Why_ did you remove them without telling anybody?!" 

"Because I had immediate business to conduct in here. It would have been wrong to let private meetings be...surveilled, eavesdropped on." 

"Why didn't you just use another office?" 

"Because this is my Goddamned office and I do my business _here_ , and I don't put up with that kind of shit in my space! I have obligations to the people I work with not to allow their business to be leaked anywhere they don't want it to be." 

"Okay, Steve," Blair said shakily, his voice deep and clipped, almost panting with emotion; he was backing slowly away from Stephen, raising a hand to shake a seriously pissed finger at him. "You are really beginning to scare me here because I happen to know you are NOT THAT STUPID! Don't you understand that this could be _serious_? You've alerted whoever planted those bugs, and we have no earthly idea who they are! For all we know, this is something to do with--" he broke off suddenly, licking his lips. "Are you sure the mics are all gone? And the cameras?" 

"I'm sure. Blair, it's--" 

Blair stomped all over Stephen's words, talking a mile a minute, gesticulating frantically. "This could have to do with Jim. It could be something to do with his covert ops days, or it could even have something to do with the sentinel thing. That's been leaked to people who are willing to go to great lengths to use him before. Or it could be _dangerous_ industrial espionage directed at MBE, or even at you specifically. Or it could have had something to do with one of the meetings you were having today, not be about MBE exactly at all--but it's gonna be ten times harder to find out through the evidence--" he gestured bluntly at the croaked little camera lying on the desk, "because ever since you pulled those mics, whoever it was is _onto_ the fact that you know you're being watched and they're gonna--" 

Stephen had been gesturing for Blair to slow down, calm down, hold up a minute--finally he reached over and grabbed Blair's head, firm but gentle, covering his mouth with one hand. "Blair," he said softly. "It's okay. I know who it is." 

Blair gulped, staggering to a verbal halt, as Stephen let go of him. "You do?" 

"My father." 

"Why would...?" Blair trailed off weakly, bumping against the desk. "Oh, man..." 

Stephen gave him a supportive arm. "Maybe we should discuss it over lunch; you look a little shaky. But don't worry. It's nothing at all new, so don't get your shorts in a twist." He picked up the little camera, turning it this way and that to look at it, saying "I do know enough to know this is a remote, not a self-contained unit; the rest of it is still up in the ceiling--not just some anonymous cable leading to a transmitter. Security might be interested in that. On the way out I'll speak to Grace again; she'll get the right people up here to take care of everything. I already gave her the mics and showed her where I found them." 

* * *

Blair was too shell-shocked to say much when he realized Stephen was leading him, instead of to the front doors, to the building's own parking levels. He _did_ notice the murmurs of "Good day, Mr. Ellison," "Have a nice lunch, Mr. Ellison," and other such as they made their way to the elevators and thence to the massive lobby, then on down. Nobody even gave Blair an odd look this time. On his way up, he'd thought he was going to be in the shower for a week trying to scrub the eyetracks off. 

"Uh, do you know *everybody's* name?" Blair wondered. 

"Most everybody," Stephen said, getting in on the driver's side of the Mustang. The car had been parked right next to the elevator they got off of. "Just another part of the job. Where to?" 

"Oh, up to you." 

"How about Calice du Champagne?" 

"Steve, that's not a funny thing to say to a grad student." 

"It's on me." 

Blair just rolled his eyes. "I'm not dressed for it, man." 

"Neither am I, really. We'll get a private dining room." 

"We'll get a...okay, Stephen, what is up with you? I know you're not hurting, man, but all things considered--that place, private room--you're talking about spending about a grand on lunch with ME!" 

"I got hungry for slugs?" 

"Steve!" 

"Well-prepared ones, I mean. I'm no pushover when it comes to pseudopodal food, you know." 

Blair couldn't help laughing along with the other man. "I know, the kind you peel off the cabbages in the garden are so chewy, aren't they?" 

Stephen made a raspberry, giving him a "Gross, Blair" expression. 

"You started it. What are they gonna _think_ when you bring me in there with you?" 

"That it's one of my mysterious, inexplicable schmooze sessions. That they can't fathom why I'd be so interested in you...but also that I've shown them, in the past, that I usually have my reasons." 

"That's so flattering." 

"Don't ask questions you're not sure you want to hear the answers to. Anyway, even though I'm in there entertaining business associates at least a couple of times a week, I couldn't get in dressed even like I am, right now, but--at least for regulars like me--their dress code doesn't apply if you're in a private dining room; there's another entrance. You could eat naked if you wanted." 

"I ain't spillin' no slugs and brains and runny omelets on my tackle, man." 

Stephen snickered. 

"Do you think we'll even be able to get in without a res..." Blair trailed off as Stephen just shot him a half-smile and a raised eyebrow that dared him to finish the sentence. "Right, dumb question, never mind," Blair muttered as they emerged into the sunlight, Stephen tipping a casual two-fingered salute to the gate guards. 

* * *

"Okay, that was a little embarrassing," Blair said conversationally, mildly irked but not actually particularly embarrassed, as they were both seated in the draped private dining chamber, about half a dozen of which bordered the main room. The drapes were blue velvet. The lighting was subdued, golden and candle-like, with a few actual candles for atmosphere, in delicate, silvery floor sconces. "I think he was about to tell you that pets aren't allowed." 

"You're imagining things." Stephen folded his arms, lounging easily in his chair opposite Blair at the small, round table. 

"Oh, really. And why do you say that?" 

"Because after what I just unloaded on him he'd have given you a blow job on top of his own fucking ebonwood lectern if I told him to." 

One of Blair's forks fell off the table as he jumped. "He *wha--*" In the act of leaning over reflexively to pick up the fork, wipe it on his jeans and put it back on the table while the servers were out of the enclosure, Blair lowered his voice again to a level that wouldn't overpower the music coming from the live string quartet behind the partition at the end of the main room. "How much did you give him?" 

"Pocket money, really. I know that guy. He's a Canadien national who puts on a Parisian accent and manners--" he said "Canadien" rather than "Canadian", such that Blair, student of many languages, could hear the fleur-de-lis spelling of the word, "--but for all that, he's still easily impressed. By the way, this is one of those places where the waiter looks at you like you asked to blow your nose on his shirt if you request a menu, so would you like me to order? Though if you want a menu, they'll give you one." 

"What? Oh, no--sure, go ahead." Blair was thinking fast, but none of it was making it from point a to point b to point c. Just when he thought he'd figured out what was going on, which direction Stephen's...well, his personality was headed, Stephen would pull a new hairpin turn and Blair would be left floundering again. He wondered why Brian hadn't been stuck at the station doing bullshit busywork today of all days, instead of out on a case. No way to know for sure, but maybe the magic Rafe vibes could have acted like lithium on his bizarrely hyped sentinel. It wasn't even like Stephen was hyped _up_. He was hyped _weird_. 

And yet, so far, he hadn't done anything particularly weird, not like the episode on the roof, or any of the other odd things Rafe had described so far that he'd found Stephen doing. Nor was he showing any of the stoned euphoria he'd demonstrated to Jim and Rafe. He wasn't acting like Stephen on a Rocky Mountain High, a meditative existential plane, or an acid trip; Blair had seen those sense-related states overtake Stephen. Come to think of it, maybe it was that he wasn't really acting like...Stephen. 

Well, yes he was. He was obviously still there, still Stephen. He'd certainly been doing his job without incident or difficulty all morning, Blair had seen that much for himself. And if he hadn't, Grace would probably have looked at least a little disturbed. He'd never met her before, but Jim had, and he spoke highly of her. 

What was it, Stephen from an alternate timeline? Oh God, Bizarro Stephen... 

Blair told himself to get a grip, then asked Stephen to repeat what he'd just said. They were interrupted, however, by the arrival of the waiter. (Which one of several different specific functions, Blair was too rattled to try to fathom.) He had expected to see a wine list--rather, he'd expected Stephen to be shown one--but apparently one was either expected to know what one wanted in that department as well, or else the regular patrons were expected to know what the house stocked, and what of that stock they personally liked. Stephen ordered in fluent, if unpretentious, French; Blair could hear that he had an American accent, but it wasn't overpowering, and he didn't attempt anything beyond his obvious level of competency with the language; if he needed something explained, he asked. Rather than being snooty about this, the current waiter (and the girl who'd shown up to do things like pour mineral water, smile and offer other supplementary services--sort of the ritzy equivalent of a busgirl) seemed to appreciate a guy who knew his limits with the language. Or maybe they just took it to mean that here was a guy who knew _he_ didn't have to try to impress the frigging wait staff, even here. 

"So, where were we?" Blair wondered, finding himself kind of straightening up and putting on his nice manners, better late than never. 

"You were asking me what I'd said to you while you were staring at me, wondering what interdimensional portal I'd fallen out of." Stephen smiled. 

Blair's eyes closed slowly. "Shit. Man, this _sucks_." 

Stephen laughed softly, a slightly deeper, more rolling sound than Blair was used to hearing from him. "It's all right, Blair. I've told you that before." 

"It's still creepy when I'm not expecting it, you know?" Blair said quietly. 

Stephen considered him a moment. Blair suspected he was being subjected to the thousand-light-year-stare he'd heard about. "All right," Stephen said. "I'll try to be more...discreet." 

Blair shook his head. "It's not your fault, Stephen." 

Stephen smiled reassuringly. "To answer your question, I was wondering who'd called you and asked you to come and check on me over lunch." There was no animosity in his tone, only curiosity. 

"I...thought you knew. When you figured out where Brian was...?" 

Stephen shook his head. "I can tell that you came because Brian's guide radar--which seems to be developing nicely, as near as he and I can tell, by the way--was pinging. But I can't tell who called you, or what they told you." 

"Well, it was Jim." 

"When was that?" 

"Jim said it was at about ten fifteen. It took a few for him to get the call out. They were under some kind of radio silence. What were you doing around that time? Is that when you...noticed what had shown up in your office?" 

"No, I told you I'd noticed all that as soon as I came in that morning. By the way, Jim is good at finding those kinds of...things, too, isn't he?" 

"Yes, but he has to look for them. He's gotten pretty reflexive about automatically casing a joint for that kind of stuff, doing an automatic sweep. But they don't wave little synesthetic 'Here we are!' flags at him. He _knows_ what he's looking for, and how to find it." 

Stephen chuckled. "Now you're making me feel inadequate." 

Blair shook his head a little, smiling. " _That_ couldn't be further from the truth. You just...knew." 

Stephen leaned forward a little to rest his wrists, fingers folded together, against the table's edge. "So, Brian sensed something was wrong while I was having a chat with Grace about her daughter's trip to the orthodontist, and who made the awful coffee this morning, and about my next appointment. That's interesting." 

"That _is_ a little weird, unless--were you feeling anything unusual, like--were you upset about the, the--the things? That you found? Were your..." he dropped his voice to a whisper. "...your senses giving you any trouble? You and Jim can sometimes both have trouble with them when you're shocked or upset." 

Stephen shook his head slowly. "No. I told you, I know who put the things there. By the way, did you know we've been here for at least ten minutes and you still haven't asked me about that?" Stephen smiled, not evilly--more like impishly. 

Jesus. He was right. He'd gotten Blair so rocked, that whole whopper of a topic had been left in the dust. Blair met Stephen's gaze. "Stephen," he said, soft but determined, "answer me this time. Why did you bring me here?" 

Stephen just gazed back a moment, then unfolded his fingers to reach across the small table with one hand. Blair's forearms were resting--rather gauchely, he supposed, for a place like this--on top of the table. Stephen's hand covered Blair's, their fingers interlacing; Blair was so used to touches like that with Stephen that he simply clasped back without thinking. 

"Because," Stephen murmured, "what with everything that's been happening lately, and all you've done for me...I don't think you realize just how much I appreciate you." Stephen's thumb moved in a gently stroking pattern over the backs of Blair's knuckles, teasing the delicate skin between them. The touch sent a tingle straight up Blair's arm and into his solar plexus, eliciting a soft gasp. 

Oh God. He was on a date. With Stephen. 

And so far, disquieting though it was, he was liking it. 

"Stephen," Blair said. "I'm going to say something, and I don't want you to panic." 

Stephen cocked his head quizzically, with a saucy smirk. "I hope it's not that you can't stand chateaubriand. I assumed we _were_ both joking about the slugs and brains?" 

His smile was infectious, and Blair couldn't help smiling back. Stephen had always had that effect on him. "No, I love chateaubriand--even if I can only eat it about once a year because it makes me drunk all by itself, and they serve it with a complimentary defibrillator. No, it's that...Stephen, I think we're sitting in the middle of some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy." 

He had been prepared for a puzzled look and a request for elaboration. Instead, Stephen leaned closer, reaching out with his other hand to lightly touch Blair's cheekbone in an invitation to lean closer, too. A mystified Blair did so. Stephen moved his lips close to Blair's ear and whispered "I know." He leaned back again a little and wagged his eyebrows at Blair. 

Blair's jaw dropped. "You _know_?" 

"Brian provided the prophecy. You provided the self, and I provided the fulfilling." Stephen winked. 

"Stephen..." Blair realized he might have totally misconstrued the situation after all. But just what the hell had that meant? "Hold it. Did you somehow...tweak Brian? Ping his guide radar on purpose? _Do_ this, deliberately?" 

Stephen shook his head. "Not at all. I wouldn't have the first idea how. I just saw it coming." 

"You _saw_ it..." Blair gulped. "I should know better by now than to ask you things like this, but...what did it look like?" 

Stephen shook his head again, his smile fading into a sincerely regretful look. "I couldn't tell you, Blair. But I saw it. Everywhere I looked, every move I made. There was a...a loop. I was moving around a curve, and you were there with me. On the same curve, even though you were across town someplace. And Brian was there too, but he was already at the end of the loop." 

Blair just stared for a moment. 

Suddenly Stephen leaned back a little and let go of Blair's hand. "The wine's coming. Just try to relax." He smiled. 

The wine arrived. Blair was extremely glad to see it. They were quiet for a bit, sipping carefully. 

Blair felt the edge of Stephen's foot rubbing lightly at his calf. "Go on," Stephen prompted in a soft croon. "You know you want to." He grinned and took another sip. 

Blair took a deep breath and said "So...what was pinging Brian's guide radar was...this. The way you're...what you're...this that we're...but it hadn't happened yet when his radar pinged. It didn't happen until he got worried and had Jim call me and send me to check on you and if he hadn't done that it wouldn't have happened at all, so how could it have pinged his radar before--" 

"Shh, Blair, don't get your neurons in a knot." Stephen was swirling the wine in his glass, letting the vapors rise beneath his nose. A wine-tasting sentinel, Blair thought, wondering if Jim or Stephen had ever tried getting bombed on the fumes. "Some things...well, they're just going to happen, and there's no avoiding it. I'm not a fatalist, precisely, Blair, but after everything that's been happening to me, I have to say I do believe in destiny, to a certain degree." 

"I have to agree, but...Stephen..." Blair shook his head vaguely, his gaze unfocused. "We've never been..." he moved his leg, gently returning the subtle footsie caress Stephen had given him. "We've never been like this." His voice dropped to a whisper on the last few words. 

Stephen just gazed at him over the rim of his glass, taking another sip. 

Blair gulped at the non-answer answer. "...have we?" he asked faintly. Stephen regarded him calmly, his whole demeanor radiating charm. 

Blair had always found Stephen charming, but that was different--that was just who he was, all the time, as he sat there reading a book or scratching his ass or crawling through the loft building's basement grime cursing, trying to help Blair find a keepsake artifact made from a coconut, which medium turned out to cause it to look uncomfortably, for being partially obscured by basement-floor clutter, like a rat, thus precipitating 1) an in-basement demonstration of the Two-Man Full-Bore Linear Panic and 2) the sudden arrival of Jim and his gun--that was what charmed Blair. Just Stephen. 

This charm was deliberate. It was nice, for sure--Blair was a bit nervous at just how nice he was finding it--but he'd never seen it before. It was obviously well-practiced, though. 

"Maybe we haven't," Stephen finally said, shrugging. He was quiet a moment, then said "Or maybe we always have, and we just didn't know it...and that was the curve, and that was what Brian felt." 

"But...why this morning?" 

Stephen shook his head. "I don't know that. I don't even know if that's what's happening. All I know is...I sensed you coming, and I called down to make sure the front door security let you in...and when you came into my office, I felt...like this." 

"You didn't know until then what the...curve was about." 

"I still don't. I just know that when you walked into my office...well, that was our stop. We were off the curve." 

Blair's eyes closed as he pondered furiously. "This has got to mean something. Everything happens for a reason. This is some kind of...well, not a time loop. God, did I have to watch all those time loop Star Treks?" 

Stephen chuckled. "I admit that one where the day repeated over and over, until Kelsey Grammar's ship came sailing out of the nebula and crashed into the Enterprise and killed everyone on both ships, got pretty old. By the way, Deanna knew they had to get out of there, and she said so, but she's not supposed to have a time sense. I thought that was what Guinan was for. Deanna can only sense emotions, though she kept--" 

Blair was staring incredulously at Stephen during this little spiel. Stephen noticed and trailed off. "Uh, sorry," he said, grinning. "But your superconscious is nattering like crazy. That's why I'm trying to drown it out with the wine; it was making you uncomfortable when I picked up on it." 

"Oh. Um...sorry. It does that." 

"Yes, I've noticed. Blair..." 

"Stephen. There is something here I can...almost get a handle on if I could just...I think it's important." 

"What's it about?" 

"You. Well, sentinels in general." 

"You think this happened to send you some kind of message?" 

"No, I think there's something right on the tip of my brain that I could get hold of if--" Blair suddenly shivered as Stephen's subtle little caresses on his hand, tickling soft skin with a perceptive delicacy only a sentinel could muster, hit a series of sensitive spots. "--oh God, Stephen, please stop doing that. I can't think." 

"I don't want you to," Stephen said softly, not releasing his grip on Blair's hand. "Well, that's not quite true. I want to you think about whether you want something for dessert that's been set on fire, or if you're still too nervous about that kind of thing since that ex of yours tried to burn your eyebrows off." 

Blair just blinked at him a minute, then felt himself responding to the puckish twinkle in Stephen's eyes, and in another moment he was laughing helplessly along with the other man. "Bring on the flambe," he said, "as long as I don't have to pour the brandy." 

"Still, I don't want you to think I'm not interested in what you're saying, Blair," Stephen said, sobering, voice taking on that subtle shading of velvet again. "But...I don't want you to worry right now. I just want you to have a good time." 

Blair smiled back at him. "It's okay, Stephen. You know...I _am_ having a good time. Thanks for bringing me here. Half-dead flannel and all." 

"I like your half-dead flannel. It's warm and friendly, like you." 

Blair glanced shyly away, then back up. "You like making me blush, don't you." 

"I love it. It's adorable. Oops--here come the hors d'oervres." Smiling, Stephen gave Blair's hand a final squeeze and let it go. 

"Are you going to tell me about your father?" Blair wondered softly. 

"Yes. But later, when I can tell everyone at the same time. In the meantime, we can practice our small talk." Stephen wagged his eyebrows suggestively again, and Blair laughed. 

What was a little half-dead flannel and footsie between brothers-in-law? 

* * *

Before the doorbell could ring at Stephen's place, he called "It's open." 

Simon opened the door with a glower, closing it behind him, shrugging out of his suit jacket. Stephen smiled at him, through the broad arched doorway from the front hall; several hallways opened off of it, superficially similar to Brian's front hall, but in an entirely different, more modular design. 

Simon was grumping "First Jim, now you. I'm never going to be allowed to ring a doorbell again. Wouldn't that be easier in your office upstairs? My back wouldn't like that position after dragging all those boxes and bags over from Rafe's." 

"I needed a change of scenery." 

"I'm assuming my detective _is_ here somewhere?" 

Stephen stretched and eased back from where he'd been hunched over the coffee table. "He's water-sharing in the back yard again." 

"What?" 

"Not a Heinlein fan? Brian's in the pool." 

"Well, I could figure that, but yeah, I've read some Heinlein." 

"'Stranger in a Strange Land'. Valentine Michael Smith." 

"Oh, the kind-of Martian. Yeah." 

"I just meant Brian plays Sub-Mariner down there for some reason; one of his meditations." 

"Until now, I never knew he was so into that kind of thing. Think maybe it's Sandburg's influence?" 

"I think he's always been that way," Stephen said softly. He cocked his head, listening. "Go ahead, he's not in any kind of meditative head right now. He's just relaxing." 

Simon watched him warily a moment, until Stephen began to turn a little pink and looked away, smiling. "Jim says you've seen him do this kind of thing." 

"I have. But he's usually careful enough to keep it under his hat around me...I'm sorry, Stephen. I know it isn't the same thing with you, quite." He nodded in question toward the entrance to the enclosed breezeway to the rear part of the house. Stephen nodded back in permission and went back to whatever he'd been working on, papers and portfolios scattered across the oak-and-glass coffee table. 

Simon continued through the house and out the open back door; the pool's surface shimmered bluely in the late afternoon light against the green of the sculpted lawn, undisturbed. Simon watched a moment, frowned, then went to the flagstoned edge of the pool and got down on one knee, trying to see through the glare off the water. 

Just as he concluded that Stephen must somehow have missed Rafe's exiting the pool, a sleek shape appeared just under where he was crouched, surging upward at an improbable speed, and suddenly he was flat on his back, covered with a grinning, wet--and naked--Rafe. "Told you you'd go to any length to oh SHIT!" Rafe scrambled backward off Simon, apparently suddenly remembered he was naked, scrambled back yet again and fell into the pool, paddling back a few strokes. "Sir, Captain, I am so--I mean--I was expecting Henri!" Rafe expostulated. "I was getting a little lightheaded and looking through the water it's not that easy to--no, wait, I don't mean that H and I are--it was just a joke--ah, _shit_." Rafe disappeared under the pool's surface again. 

At that moment, Blair was walking into the front door and noticing Simon's jacket on the coatstand. "Hey, Steve. Where's Si--what?" Blair smiled at the sight of Stephen laughing helplessly on the couch. The younger Ellison didn't say anything; he just gestured vaguely toward the breezeway. Unable to resist, Blair trotted that way, still smiling. 

Out back, he found Simon sitting on the edge of the pool, covered with dark, dampened patches across the front of his white shirt and grey slacks. His rich laugh was rolling across the yard; it'd been audible even inside. 

"Hi, Simon. Rafe splash you one?" he wondered, coming up next to the Captain. He actually doubted that would be it; unless they were in a deliberately relaxed situation, like a pick-up game or a backyard party, Simon could not afford to take anything but a dim view of being made the subject of such antics by his subordinates. 

"Oh, it was Rafe all right." 

"He still down there?" 

"Yeah," Simon sighed, managing to calm himself for a moment...then broke up anew, still helpless. "Probably looking for his trunks," he explained. 

Stephen was coming out to join them. "His personal best is a little under two minutes," he told them. "He'll _have_ to come up after that." He reached down to Simon and gave him a hand standing up. "He jumped me," Simon chuckled, explaining to the still-wondering Blair. "Naked as a noodle. Said he thought I was H. Here he comes now." 

Rafe could be seen gliding up from the deep end toward the stairs near the shallow end, moving quickly and smoothly, arms relaxed along his sides, showing so little effort he seemed to be gripped by some external motive force; they didn't even see him kick once, though he must have been flexing _something_ to maintain his momentum. He rotated in the water and stood, tossing his head to sling his waterlogged hair back. He glanced over his shoulder at their grinning countenances as he climbed the steps, hand on the rail, once again in his green boxer trunks. "Laugh it up, assholes." He pulled his towel off a low branch of one of the willows that grew just off the semicircle of stones that rimmed that end of the pool. " _You_ try looking up through six feet of chlorinated water after holding your breath for a minute and a half, and see whether _you_ can tell one big, backlit, dark brown guy from another. So, am I busted back to cadet, Captain?" 

"Well..." Simon affected a stern demeanor, shaking a finger at Rafe. "Don't ever let me catch you getting naked and pinning me to the ground again, Detective!" Rafe smirked sourly, wadded the wet towel up and threw it at him; deflecting it, Simon grinned evilly and added "Unless you mean it." 

Blair and Stephen were cackling unreservedly as Brian reached for his robe. "Ha fucking ha," he muttered, fastening the belt. "What brings you by, anyway, sir?" 

"Raaaafe," Blair singsonged very softly in a you're-dropping-the-ball tone. 

Rafe stopped and smacked a hand to his forehead. "Shit. Was that today?" 

"Was what today?" Simon wanted to know. 

"Is the party back here?" came a mellifluous soprano, flavored with a graceful UK accent. "G'day, mates." Megan was stepping onto the porch, closely followed by Jim. 

"Sorry we're late," Jim said. Connor had a seat at the patio table. Smiling, Blair came over and leaned down to kiss Megan's cheek. She patted him and asked "So, Jim said it was important. I had to call my date and tell him I'd be standing him up, so what's the secret?" 

"That there are going to be a few less secrets around here," Stephen said. "Let me get everyone some iced tea while Brian gets dressed, and we'll tell you both about it." 

* * *

An hour later, Megan, dressed in some of Blair's sweats, was sparring with Brian over by the pool. Simon, Stephen, Jim and Blair were seated at the patio table, nursing the watery remains of their iced tea. 

Blair wondered "To hear them tell it, they're about the same degree of technical proficiency, but considering some of the things I've seen Brian do, she really shouldn't be able to flip him through the air like that. He'd have the proficiency _and_ all those tricks of balance and placement that he does. Is it because they're trained in different styles or something?" 

"He says it's because she knows him, since they've practiced together so much," Stephen said. "A lot of the stunts Brian can do, not counting things like carrying around grown men who weigh more than he does, depend on the element of surprise. Most people would be briefly stunned, at least, when they busted a move on him and had about as much luck with it as if they'd been trying to knock over a tree; but Megan knows what he can do, and she anticipates it. So it isn't a lot of help with her." 

"Ooh. You can say that again," Blair said, wincing in sympathy as Brian took a hard dive, rolling to his feet at once, but with a definite grimace on his face for the jarring intensity of his impact with the grassy earth. 

"Connor! Don't break my detective!" Simon yelled across the yard to them. 

"No worries, Captain," she called back, smiling grimly as she and Rafe feinted back and forth. Suddenly Brian dropped his stance and just charged, with some kind of weird falsetto war cry. Not anticipating _that_ , Megan emitted a grfing noise when he smacked into her, carrying them both back...and knocking Megan into the pool. 

"And that's it, folks, he's a dead man," Simon chuckled, swirling the ice and tea in his glass a couple of times before taking a sip. 

Rafe didn't get away from the edge in time and Megan's arm snaked up out of the water and with an invisibly swift chop, Rafe went for his second swim of the day. 

"Great, now they're gonna drown each other," Jim sighed. "Like we don't have enough personnel problems." 

"Aah, he just knew it was the only way he was gonna get an advantage over her," Blair said. "Considering the way he swims, I mean." 

Shrieks of laughter, cusswords and imprecations emanated from the thrashing wad of humanity churning the peaceful, blue-reflecting water of the pool into a maelstrom. Blair chuckled at the scene and said "So, Simon, that's the plan. What do you think?" 

Simon sighed, too, looking pensive. "I gotta admit, it doesn't look like the brightest move, on the surface...but after I think about it--I guess it just depends on how committed you all are to this. This ain't the kind of thing you do without being _damn_ sure it's what you want." 

"We are committed, Simon," Stephen said softly. "We want to be. And you know why we have to be." 

"Yeah, guess I do. Suppose it's not reasonable that everybody would have lucked out in their situation the way Jim and Sandburg did--even as much trouble as they've sometimes had, you're right; they're lucky to have the setup they do. But I guess it's going to take some sacrificing for you two." 

"The lousy thing is that Jim and Blair have to sacrifice for us as well," Stephen said. 

"Stephen, it's your life we're talking about," Jim said again, "how can you think we wouldn't be willing?" 

"Maybe not the way you mean, but it's still your life, too, Jim. And Blair's. And, to a lesser degree, Simon's. This is a complication he doesn't really need, either." 

Simon shook his head. "Like Jim says, Stephen, this could be life or death, over the long haul. You need Rafe, you need to be able to be with him, for however long it turns out being, and...okay, okay, I'll admit I about lost my shorts when I first heard Sandburg explain this a little while ago, but...I guess I have to agree it's the safest way. Even though it ain't gonna be an easy way." 

"And we all know what Connor thinks," Jim said, grinning at an especially loud burst of mutual profanity from the direction of the water fight. He referred to the fact that Megan, on hearing the proposal, had proclaimed, in her usual straightforward fashion, her intentions of giving any support that might be required; then she asked Rafe if he wanted to spar, and apparently thought no more about it. 

"What about your partners, Stephen?" Simon wondered. 

"I've called a meeting for tomorrow morning," Stephen said, drumming his fingers pensively on the table, with a brief smile when Connor made some half-drowned comment comparing Brian's ancestors to three-toed sloths, and he made one back comparing hers to wallabies. "I guess we'll see." 

"How do you think they'll react?" Blair pressed in concern. 

Stephen sighed. "Martin will get that pinched look he does when he doesn't like something but is trying to be diplomatic. Schroeder, who seems to think I'm one stepped removed from Beaver Cleaver, will be stunned, but not angry; he hasn't got any kids, and I think he regrets that; I kind of fill the role for him. Blake will hem and haw and, through various machinations, try to make the situation resemble one he's more comfortable with--don't laugh; his ability to do that is one of the reasons he is where he is. It'll also likely be Blake to first bring up the stockholder's meeting this week." 

"Are you just going to...I don't know, just kind of announce you're screwing this cop, or what?" Blair wondered. Simon gave him a disgusted look. 

"Nothing so bald," Stephen said, smiling a little at the helpless shrug Blair was giving Simon. "Brian and I...thought we'd have some kind of formal gathering for the occasion. Party, reception, whatever you want to call it. Invite our families, friends, co-workers. Dealing with my Dad might be easier under those circumstances." 

Blair said "So...essentially, you're going to invite them to your wedding." 

"That's the gist. Oh, we won't be doing any standing up and taking vows or anything. We'll probably just make a little statement thanking everyone for coming, and showing their support for us at this important point in our lives, et cetera." 

"So. Rafe's gonna be totally out," Simon mused, looking pensive. 

"I'm worried about him," Blair said. "I know what cops can be like to someone they consider to be an outsider, especially if it's their opinion that said outsider is enjoying privileges and acknowledgement that might, shall we say, more properly go to someone more deserving." 

"Is that Brian's situation?" Stephen wondered, brow creasing in worry. 

"With some few diehards and old-timers," Jim admitted. "He's the youngest person in the entire PD to make the rank he has. He's attractive--well, maybe the real problem there is he's quote pretty unquote. Nobody but Megan can regularly clean his clock in hand-to-hand practice--I still say they should form the 'Society of people who look like one good fart would get them airborne, but who nevertheless manage to kick far beefier ass--'" 

Stephen snorted. 

Jim smirked too and continued "--he's dripping with commendations, and he's richer than he knows what to do with. What makes this even worse to the soreheads is that he's modest and polite, too. Yeah, sure, there are people who think he's the shit, but there are also people who resent him for all that...with my hearing advantage, I happen to know that there are even some women at the station who actually resent him for being gay. No, he's not officially out to them, but he's always impeccably polite and courteous to them, he has a knack for painlessly deflecting any flirting that's directed at him, everyone knows he's not married, you never see him with a date--it's not rocket science. And for a while, when he first joined Major Crimes? That post was a prize one hell of a lot of people were jumping for, and there was some talk about..." 

"About just _how_ attractive he is," Simon said. "And how that might have affected his ability to come up from beat cop so fast." 

"They think he _slept_ his way up?" Blair said incredulously, blue eyes huge. 

"Nah, nobody seriously does. For one thing, they'd have to postulate enough women or gay men in enough positions of authority for that to work, and there just aren't enough women, so you'd have to admit you were calling at least a certain percentage of his former supervisors gay. These guys are real sourballs," Simon said. "Mostly 'phobes. And desk sergeants about to get stuck with mandatory retirement, guys like that, who figure they could be in charge of a department by now if they'd had the 'breaks' they think Rafe must've had." 

"Rafe's only 'break' was a general predisposition to be extremely good at what he does," Blair snorted. 

"In other words, you have no idea whether or how this might affect his ability to do his job, at least as far as he needs the cooperation of others," Stephen said quietly. 

Jim shook his head. "No. I don't really know how it's going to affect _my_ ability to do my job in that respect, either; but we've been over all that. We'll just have to wait and see." 

Simon said "Our non-discrimination regs include homosexuals specifically--well, it says something like "sexual preference", the language is kind of outdated, but it means the same thing--as well as things like race and religion. He could legitimately slam anybody who hassled him." 

"You know that might only undercut his position when the issue is one of popularity, Simon," Blair said, soft and worried. 

"I know. But as his Captain, _I_ could also legitimately slam anyone who hassled him, and then it would reflect on me--divorced, child-having me--rather than on him." 

"You'd do that for him?" Stephen wondered softly, smiling. 

"I'd do that for any of my people, Stephen," Simon said seriously. "I won't have anyone in my department that I don't feel I can back." 

Megan and Brian were climbing out of the pool. "Stay there," Stephen called, making stay-put motions with both hands. "Don't drip all over creation. Let me get you some towels." He got up to go do so as Rafe shook his head rapidly, slinging water out of his hair, making Megan give him a not-very-heartfelt glare from where she was bent over, wringing her own hair out. "Always said men were dogs, mate. Some of 'em at least." 

"Bite me, Connor." 

"I thought I wasn't your type." 

He grinned and reached over to help her squeeze the last trickles of water from her hair, as she started in wringing her shirt. Brian had already stripped his off. 

* * *

An hour or so later, Simon and a dampish but cheerful Megan had taken their leave; Jim, Stephen, Blair and Brian were dining al fresco in the pleasant evening air, on salads and sandwiches. They had been put off with a vague reassurance that it had been a mild zone that precipitated Rafe's guide radar carrying on like a laser show; Megan had not looked convinced, but none of them labored under the impression that either she or Simon would honestly appreciate knowing the real state of affairs between the four of them, and it would be hard to avoid the topic if Blair had told them the truth, considering. 

"Okay," Jim said, "I think Brian and I have waited long enough. What was up with Stephen that was urgent enough send Brian's guide 'dar into orbit?" 

Blair was turning pink, and Stephen was smiling at him. 

"Yeah, Blair, come on," Rafe said, wiping his fingers with a napkin. "You said you wanted a little time to try to think it out before you explained. Well, you've had a couple of days now. What have you come up with? I'd like to know what those ants in my pants really meant, and if I can expect them to be visiting on any kind of regular basis." 

Blair took a deep breath. "Okay. There's a perceptual ability Stephen is developing that seems to be related to causality." 

"Causality," Jim repeated. 

"Right. I think that it's part of what he was able to do up on the roof. He was talking about chaos theory and all that, remember?" 

"Yes," Jim nodded, leaning forward, listening intently. 

"Okay. I haven't got that aspect of it all worked out, but I think that it's not so much Stephen can predict the future as see the potentials. The word 'see' isn't entirely accurate, of course, maybe 'sense' would be better. It'll take a lot of time to analyze and quantify exactly why he can do what he does in that regard; hell, I may never figure it all out. But what happened the other day seems to be a combination of that ability, plus another ability, one Stephen has _always_ had." Blair paused, thinking. 

"Keep going. We're following you," Brian said, and popped a cherry tomato into his mouth. Stephen, with a catlike smile, watched him lick the juice from his lips. 

"Down, boy," Jim told him fondly. "Not at the dinner table." 

"Party poop," Stephen grinned, taking a sip of his tea. 

"Go _on_ , Blair," Rafe enjoined. 

"Okay. So I've been telling Stephen to start using his abilities deliberately, in an everyday kind of way, just like Brian and I have been working with him to help him start exercising more deliberate control, rather than just accepting serendipity when it hits, right?" 

"Right," Jim said. "And?" 

"Well, he's apparently been more successful than any of us realized." 

"I'm a chameleon," Stephen said, and took a bite of sandwich. 

"What?" Rafe wondered. 

Blair said "His ability with people. The way he can read people and know what they respond to." 

"Apparently it's something I've always done--the unconscious aspect of it, I mean," Stephen clarified, "as well as the deliberate parts. But it really only usually works when I _want_ it to work, on a level I'm so used to I don't realize it--I don't...I'm not in that mindset with my family and friends. When I walk into my office, though, or into any work-related situation, it kicks in." 

"Well, yeah," Jim said. "That's simple enough to follow. You guys are saying that you're getting even better at that?" 

"Yes, but not in a blatant fashion," Blair said. "This _is_ something all negotiators and business people do--the really good ones, at least--it's just that with the senses going full throttle, Stephen is probably the world champion." 

"Okay," Brian said. "Why'd it ping my guide radar?" 

"Uh..." Blair was drumming his fingers on the table, thinking. "That's gonna be a little hard to explain." With a little help from Stephen, he managed to go over their "causal curve" idea. 

Jim frowned. "That doesn't make any sense. I always hated time travel stories. Cause precedes effect; I don't care what kind of equations anybody shows me to the contrary." 

Blair shook his head. "This isn't about time per se; time is only one factor in an equation like this. It's about causality, and the fact that Stephen has some kind of...something that amounts to a sixth sense for it. It's a result of the synergistic way the senses function in him. It's not, technically, _another_ sense--it's an emergent property, an effect of his senses working in tandem the way they do." 

"So...Stephen's whole is greater than the sum of his parts," Jim tried. 

"Essentially. He has the exact same senses you do, Jim. It's those senses combined with Stephen himself that make the difference, that give him the different abilities that he has, and also, unfortunately, which deprives him of some of the abilities that you have. He's not a stronger sentinel than you. He's just different." 

"Well, this lends a lot of weight to your theory that all sentinels are unique to one degree or another," Brian said. "But you still haven't told me why my radar pinged." 

"Evidently--I don't know why this is; it doesn't really work this way with Jim and me, but I suspect it's just another aspect of that uniqueness every sentinel has. You were able to tell that Stephen was perceiving, operating, functioning in a new way. You didn't know what was making you squirm; you didn't even have a sense of it being anything bad or dangerous happening. You just knew something was different." 

"And that's it?" Brian wondered. "Stephen's making progress, integrating his abilities in new ways, and I could tell that?" 

"Well...it's the causality thing again...like we were telling you. You were--you were part of the whole non-linear series of events that Stephen was perceiving--Stephen, when he's perceiving in this fashion, doesn't see time as a road, a river, a straight line--he perceives it all at once. It's...like a house, a three-dimensional space to him. He can go from room to room however he wants. He can look outside of it by opening the window. And to leave it entirely, all he has to do is open the door." 

"And that made _me_ able to detect a change in Stephen?" 

"Well, not exactly. I'm not real clear on this part yet. I think you may have a different sort of connection to Stephen than the one I have to Jim--Stephen's perceptions can actually act as a link between him and the things he perceives. It's not out of the question he could have the kind of link with you that goes both ways--he perceives you, you perceive him...the problem is you're thinking linearly. It helps to see time as a space." 

"I was never that great in physics, Blair," Brian sighed. "And I'm starting to get nervous. What kind of effect would this kind of...perception have on a human mind? Hell, on a human _brain_?" 

Everybody looked at Stephen. He just did a what-me-worry look and went back to munching potato chips, humming a little to himself, the occasional word audible when he wasn't actively chewing. "When you walked into the room, there was voodoo in the vibes...I was captured by your style, but I could not catch your eyes..." 

"Okayyy," Jim said, exchanging another nervous look with Brian. "So just how did you figure all this out?" 

"I came on to Blair," Stephen said, smiled again, and popped another chip, humming some more. "...hopin' you'll get into me--I am so into you, I can't think of nothin' else... 

"You _what_?" Jim blurted, half-rising from the table. 

Stephen glanced up blandly, raising his Spock eyebrow. "Calm down, Jim. I didn't grope him or anything. I just took him to Calice and turned on a little of the old Ellison charm. We had a good time--I've never had so much fun at a three-hour lunch. I _did_ almost kiss him--a serious liplock, I mean, not the kind of thing we usually do--but I got distracted." 

"No, it's not that--I mean, there's you and Brian, that's not--it's just-- _Blair_? That'd be like me getting fresh with Brian." Jim made a slight face. 

"Gee, thanks," Rafe said, throwing a cherry tomato at Jim. 

"You know what I mean. Blair and Stephen have always seen each other as brothers, friends. They're both flirts, but they've never shown the slightest indication of being genuinely hot for each other. I'm a sentinel, I know these things." 

"What seems to have happened," Blair said, squirming in his chair, "is...well, I'd never been to Stephen's office before, never been with him in the middle of his professional element like that. He was still...to put it bluntly, he was still in chameleon mode, and he took me in with his senses, and...responded to what I..." 

"...wanted," Stephen said, grinning evilly. "What he wanted me to do, what he wanted from me." 

Jim shook his head in puzzlement. "But you *don't* want...I can smell how weird you feel about the whole thing from here." He turned his gaze to Stephen. "And how tickled _you_ are by it." 

Stephen grinned again, and popped a chip, and didn't reply. 

Blair took a deep breath, nerving himself up, and spoke before he could lose it. "Apparently, my _ahem_ sexual attraction to Stephen is entirely a subconscious one; never been powerful enough to make it past my conscious feelings of platonic affection for him, never been as strong as the brother thing. And it still isn't," he added significantly. Stephen just looked even more smug. 

Brian began to grin. "You didn't _know_ you were attracted to him? But he was able to tell anyway?" he cracked up. "Jesus. You must have _shit_!" 

"No, but I thought about it," Blair muttered glumly. "As soon as I figured out what was up." 

"I didn't know why I was feeling the way I was--why I suddenly had this urge to sweep Blair, of all people, off his feet. Didn't bother _me_ at all, but you should have seen his face when he realized he was going to have to explain it to me," Stephen snickered. "Can you imagine having to spell it out to somebody that they're coming on to you not because they're hot for you, but because you're hot for them?" 

Brian snorted again. "Ooh, reality check time..." 

"Look, guys," Jim tried, taking pity on Blair, "yeah, ha-ha, boy is his face red, but come on. This could mean Stephen is turning into some kind of...perceptual ping-pong ball. Isn't this just the kind of thing we're trying to _stop_? Stephen ending up being controlled by his surroundings through his senses, rather than him controlling the senses himself?" 

"Take it easy, Jim," Stephen said. "I'm still getting the hang of it, that's all." 

Brian shook his head. "He's right, Stephen. Yeah, it's good you're getting into the general Stephenness of it all, but without some controls on it this could be real trouble. Blair, you want to help us out? Sit down with me and go over some lesson plans?" 

"Nobody told me being a sentinel was going to involve so much homework," Stephen muttered. "Is everybody else done eating? I'll clear the table." 

"Hey," Blair said, catching Stephen's arm as he started to rise. "There's one more thing. You've had your fun; now you get to tell us all about the camera and the microphones and your dad." 

"What?" Jim said, brow lowering ominously? "Camera?" 

Stephen sighed, sitting back down. "Jim...there are some things you don't know." 

"What? Things _I_ don't know? About Dad? What haven't you been telling me?" Jim looked half angry, half stricken. 

"I didn't want to make you mad at Dad." 

"Mad at--what's the son of a bitch done this time, Stephen? Hasn't he done enough to you?" 

"I'm _trying_ to tell you. I really thought the problem was over. He hasn't made any kind of stink for...well, years now." 

"Stink over what?" 

Stephen heaved a deep sigh. "I think Dad may have known I had sentinel abilities," Stephen said heavily. "You remember how badly he reacted when Grandpa would call me those nicknames." 

Jim's eyes narrowed. "Yeah. Yeah, I do..." 

"Naturally the reasons for some of the...things Dad's done over the years after you left never occurred to me, since I had no idea I had the abilities. I thought he was just being his usual control freak self...this is really just conjecture, but it's the only thing that makes sense." 

Jim gazed intently at Stephen. "Start at the beginning." 

"You remember I made it out of Ellison Industries in only a few years." 

"Yeah, you told me that. It took a number of jumps--this last one with Harrington Construction--before you ended up at MBE. Well, at MB and Associates." 

"What I didn't tell you is that Dad didn't take it well when I left the company." 

"And his objection was what? I can't see his feelings being hurt. I can see him getting pissed off if anyone perceived his son's leaving the family corporation as an insult to him--" 

"Oh, he put it about, via rumours and such, that it was his idea--that he planned to use the contacts and connections I'd make for the benefit of EI. No, he wasn't worried that my leaving would make him look bad. It was just that he, and everybody else except Murrison, were very impressed with the work I did. I was a real asset to the company. And now, looking back...I'm betting Dad knew why I was such an asset, even though I didn't." 

"He...he wanted you where he could keep an eye on you?" Jim said worriedly. 

"I think that was part of it. He didn't want me out running around doing inexplicable things. He knew the senses could be driven into remission, since that had happened with you--but as I say, I think he knew that at least some form of the senses was actually functioning with me. Apparently he either didn't know how to force them to remiss in me, or he tried and it didn't work--see, he wouldn't have wanted to alert me to the fact that I did have them; he knew I knew about you, but he also knew I wasn't aware I was carrying my own partially active version, and he didn't want me to find out, so...he settled for...keeping an extremely close eye on me." 

Jim looked grim. "How close?" 

"He's had me followed. Traced my paper trails. He's gotten to some of my assistants in the past--Marah became pretty damn good at figuring out where the spies were while I was still at EI. He's planted situations and circumstances in my way, and then watched me to see what I'd do. I wouldn't realize until later, of course. Jim, if I didn't know better I'd think he was fascinated with me, some kind of bizarre, desperate clingy-parent thing. Dana says his profile supports the idea. But I do know better. He's _afraid_ \--but not for me. _Of_ me." 

"That doesn't give him the right to... _surveil_ you, to invade your privacy like this! You mentioned a camera. Has he actually had equipment installed in your home or your workplace to record your actions? That's about a dozen different kinds of illegal. We can run his ass in for this." 

"Jim, no--" Stephen held his hands out, one toward the irefully scowling Brian, and one toward the near-homicidal Jim. "Calm down, you two. I'm not afraid of him. He's never hurt me--well, not this way, you know what I mean. He's never even seriously interfered in my life." 

"That you know about," Brian pointed out grimly. "A guy with the kind of connections he has? Gods alone know what he's done to you in the past that you'll never even be aware of!" 

"He hasn't managed to keep me from being a full partner in a multinational corporation at the age of thirty-five, has he?" 

There wasn't much to say to that. Jim and Brian calmed down. 

"A couple of mornings ago, the day Blair came to see me, I noticed three microphones and a camera in my private office. I pulled them all. Unfortunately, our security can't tell for sure how long they were there. Jim, I have to believe that Dad would never do anything to hurt me. But it's difficult to get behind the idea that he's _that_ afraid of my sentinel senses manifesting, _still_ that afraid; and I suspect that's not all there is to it." 

"What else do you suspect?" Jim said quickly. 

"Look at it this way. Since Dad refused categorically to _ever_ discuss the subject of the senses, and we never heard anything from Mom on the topic before she left, we have no idea what the old bastard does or does not know about it. Anyone in our family could have been one--the tendency must be pretty strong for the two of us both to manifest the senses. I'm not sure what the odds of that are, but...Jim, for all we know Dad is one himself, but he's managed to hate the whole thing into remission. You've nearly done that yourself before. That might be why he was so down on the whole concept. Or uncle Gene or aunt Chloe. Or maybe it comes from Mom's side of the family--maybe she was one, and for some reason it brought about their breakup. I don't know anything for sure, Jim, but I think Dad knows I have the senses, and I think for some reason it scares the shit out of him, for more reasons than the senses manifesting in you scared him." 

"What makes you say that? Maybe he just...maybe he's scared of it in both of us." 

"No. He knows you have them now, and he's not having you tailed or anything." 

"Stephen, I'm a cop, and like you said, he knows I do have the senses. He knows I'd be able to detect that kind of surveillance. But if he doesn't know for _sure_ that _you_ have the senses, or have them to a significant degree..." 

Stephen shook his head. "That's kind of my point. He knows I have _something_. And something about what he thinks I have scares him. He's never confronted me about them; I think he still wants to avoid letting me know I have them, in the event I still *don't* know. I think that's part of the reason for the surveillance. He wants to make sure I haven't found out about them." 

"Stephen, do you know all this the same way you...you just _know_ things sometimes?" Brian wondered quietly. 

Stephen shook his head. "I've been trying to work all this out for years. It never came together until the senses hit, though." 

"But what could he be afraid of?" Blair wondered. "He's trying to rebuild his relationship with Jim, even though he knows Jim has the senses--he's not too afraid of being associated with a 'freak', if Jim's senses were to become known, to do that much. Why...hide his feelings about your senses from you, why spy on you?" 

"Maybe he knows I'm different from Jim," Stephen said softly. "Maybe...he knows what I am, whatever it is." 

There was quiet at the table for a while. 

Jim finally said "I do remember him yelling at Grandpa, for, what'd he say...filling your head with those stupid, old-fashioned stories, that you were dreamy enough, that he wouldn't stand for him...ruining you." 

Stephen looked grim. "I wasn't there for that one." 

"He didn't know I was, either. I happened to hear it because the senses hadn't remised yet. When I heard all the screaming I turned around and walked right back down the driveway. But not before I heard Grandpa tell Dad that you weren't dreamy, that you weren't being ruined. That you had a gift." 

More silence. 

"Could Grandpa have been?" Jim spoke again. 

Stephen shrugged helplessly. "Maybe. It is a family trait. And that being the case, the things he used to say to me...the stories...I think it's a pretty good bet he knew what _I_ was, whether he was, or not." 

"But not Jim?" Blair puzzled. 

"He may have seen that Jim and I weren't the same that way, and for whatever reason, he thought I needed to be...protected, where Jim was doing fine on his own." 

Another quiet moment. 

"Gentlemen," Brian said, dropping his napkin on his plate, "we do not have enough information to continue speculating. I think we need to rectify that situation before we do anything else on this. Jim, Stephen, this is your family. You'll know the best places to start." 

Jim nodded. "Stephen, as far as the surveillance goes--are you _sure_ it's Dad? I don't need to tell you the kind of deep shit you could be in if it's anyone else at all who might be interested in whether or not you're a sentinel. Of if it's anything else, for that matter." 

"It's Dad," Stephen said softly. "That much I know." 

"Do you know of any other investigations into you that he's conducting?" 

"At the moment, all I'm aware of was the mics and the camera." 

Jim stood up. "We're gonna do a sweep of the house--" 

"Jim, the house is clean. I know that, too." 

Blair frowned. "Why bug your office and not your house? Wouldn't you be more likely to show some evidence of the senses, or talk about them, or something, in private rather than at work?" 

Stephen sighed. "I know the house is clean because I pulled all the bugs." 

Jim stared. " _When_?" 

"Right after I moved in. And I've had company security keeping an eye on things since then. I found out he'd been...communicating with the construction firm I hired. Apparently they'd been installed during the building of the house. He...must have--" 

"That is it. I'm gonna kill that sonofabitch--" 

"Jim, no! Christ, I was afraid of this--" 

"Ellison, calm down, come on. You're upsetting Stephen--" 

"No, DAD is upsetting Stephen and it's gonna stop! I'll put the old fuck's head through a wall if he so much as--" 

"JIM!" Everybody shut up at Blair's shout. "Get a grip! Or what's that bullshit you once spouted at me about letting anger take you out of the game? Threatening your father isn't going to do any good if he's as invested, for whatever reason, in this whole watching-Steve thing as he'd have to be, to be doing it so thoroughly in the first place. Now just breathe for a minute." 

Jim sat back down, jaw muscle jumping. Blair plopped back down in his chair, slumping and exhaling softly. 

Stephen and Brian looked at each other. 

"Let's clean up," Stephen said softly. Brian nodded and the two began gathering the dishes. 

As they went in, Blair said "Come on, Jim...reaming your Dad won't help Stephen." 

"It might make the old shitbag stop with his goddamn denials and silences and covert bullshit, and face up to a few things for once." 

"Come on, do you really want to tell him that Stephen has the senses? Now that you know there may be a good reason not to let him find out?" 

"I won't live in fear of that s.o.b. And I won't let him make Stevie live in fear any more, either." 

"Jim, maybe you were too busy seeing red to notice, but Stephen *isn't* afraid, not of your father. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe Stephen has a hope of some kind of genuine reconciliation with your father, too? He honestly believes your father is afraid of him, and it makes him sad. Your tearing into the old guy will only upset Stephen. I mean, give me a break. Do you really think it's going to make a difference in your father's attitude? Haven't you tried that tactic with him before?" 

Jim was quiet. Stephen and Brian came back out to get the rest of the dishes, then went back in again. 

"Okay, no direct confrontation," Jim said. "What do you suggest?" 

"For right now, we've all got a hell of a lot on the boards. Maybe it's better to let it rest for a while." 

Jim glared. "I can't believe you said that." 

"Stephen isn't in any danger from your father--" 

"We don't know that. All we have for any of this is Stephen's intuition. If you didn't notice, he didn't give us all that much actual information about what all exactly Dad has done, and how Stephen knows about it, and why he thinks he's so safe--" 

"He was probably afraid you'd go ballistic if he told you too much, and he was right." 

Jim simmered. 

"Let Stephen take the lead on this, Jim. It's his problem, after all--" 

"He's my--he's my...my brother. My Stevie." 

"He's a grown man and he knows what he's doing. Leave it until Stephen is ready to act on it. As far as researching your family history, though...that sounds like an excellent idea. We'll just keep your Dad out of it as much as possible." 

"Are you listening to yourself? Have you been paying attention? Nobody keeps our Dad out of anything he doesn't want to be kept out of." 

Blair sighed, shaking his head. "You're too pissed off to talk to right now. I brought everything I need to work on tonight with me; I got the feeling you might want to stay over." 

"You got the feeling--Chief, did you know what Stevie was going to tell us?" Jim demanded. 

"No! Jesus, one piece of disturbing news--" 

" _One_?" 

"--and you see conspiracy everywhere. We're staying over?" 

Jim sighed. "Yeah, yeah--we're staying over, Sandburg." 

"Don't Sandburg me just because you're pissed at your Dad." 

"I'm a little pissed at you, too, right now." 

"No shit. I'm going to get to work. Maybe it would be a good idea if I slept with Brian tonight." 

Jim glared. "Are you going to start using Brian to make your point every time you don't like something I do?" 

Blair took a deep breath. "I am letting that go, because I know you don't think that little of me; you're just angry right now. No, I am not using Brian to make a point. I think the person you need right now is Stephen, and I don't think _I_ have a hope in hell of doing or saying anything that *won't* make you angry. If we were at home, I'd sleep downstairs. Since we're here, I sleep with Brian and you sleep with Stephen. Simple, right? Unless you'd rather sleep with Brian--" 

"Or maybe you'd like to sleep with Stephen?" Jim snapped--and his eyes widened. 

Blair made a sudden "Ahhhh..." sound, with an exaggerated nod. "That's what's really getting you, isn't it. Stephen and I didn't do anything much we haven't done before; it was mostly just a minor paradigm shift, a nice afternoon, and Stephen working his very charming wiles on me. Which, since we're getting everything out on the table, I _did_ enjoy and _did_ find quite flattering. And I must admit there is a very heady sensation of personal power in having somebody drop a ten-kilo dime for one meal just to show me a good time. All in all, Stephen made me feel good about myself in a way I haven't really had the energy to lately--especially the part where he told me that he wanted me to understand how much he appreciated me." 

"Are you really going to bring that whole issue up? Am I supposed to say 'direct hit'?" Jim muttered darkly. 

"I'm not talking about you and me, I'm talking about Stephen's and my little experience, and how I felt about it, so that you'll know what's going on with us. It was fun, and you know I love Stephen and any fool can see he's got major appeal. But it hasn't changed anything between us, and I'm no more conscious of wanting his bod than I was before I found out that there was a little subconscious piece of me somewhere that'd like to ring his chimes for him. So are you jealous?" 

"Well...no, not really. I mean...it's _us_ , you know. It's all us, after all. It's just...a strange thought." 

"You think so from there, try it from my point of view." 

"Blair?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I'm sorry." 

"I know, Jim. You never mean to wig out when something trips one of your primal-instinct triggers, whether it's about me, or about protecting Stephen, or whatever. I just wish..." he sighed, shaking his head. "Right, 'wish'. And people in hell want ice water. You are who you are and I love who you are. And I know you love me. I just think...well. You know what I think. No point beating it to death." Blair got up and collected what little refuse remained of the meal, and went into the house through the open sliding door. 

* * *

"What is it with you and roofs?" 

"Me?" Stephen crawled to the edge of the roof and leaned down, nearly bonking foreheads with Jim where the latter was leaning out of a top-floor bedroom window that faced onto the back yard. "Oops. You like roofs, too." 

"Since I got to be such a heavyweight, I usually stick with roofs that have some kind of deliberately installed access, not the kind that are intended primarily to keep the rain off." He reached up a hand; Stephen grabbed it, then braced himself as Jim grabbed the eve with his other hand and, getting up on the sill, swung over the lip of the roof with a hoist from his brother. 

"Hm," Jim said, looking around. "Not bad. Pretty good view. Screening from the street by trees..." 

Stephen sighed. "Yeah. Somehow it just isn't the same anymore, though. I guess it's because...because the world looks so much smaller now. For so many reasons." 

"Yeah," Jim said softly. 

"Did you look in on Blair and Brian?" 

"They're dead to the world," Jim smiled, coming and sitting down next to where Stephen was perched on an attic window gable. "In a tangle in the middle of the bed, like usual; practically radiating unconsciousness. They were both so tired by the time they got to bed they just looked at each other and said 'Good NIGHT' and crashed." 

"They did?" Stephen chuckled softly. "Didn't notice, I was on the phone, taking care of some loose ends at work, for a couple of hours; I _did_ notice they were both dragging serious ass before they finally headed for bed." 

"They're trying to figure out a new series of exercises, like they said, and Brian had paperwork to do that H wouldn't let him leave the bullpen without taking, and Blair had his usual stuff..." 

"Guides. Aren't they cute when they're sleepy?" Stephen smiled. 

"As long as they don't, as Brian would say, end up on their lips someplace." They were both quiet a moment, taking in the view, the sound of the breeze and soft night noises, the landscape--and each other--in the starlight. 

Jim moved, scooting up behind Stephen and wrapping around him. Stephen leaned back into him and sighed. 

"Are you pissed I didn't tell you about Dad?" 

"I'll get over it. You matter more than my being pissed." 

"That have anything to do with Blair sleeping with Brian?" 

"Maybe. I know what he was doing. He does it at home, too. It...I _am_...a little too much sometimes. Blair removes himself until I calm down because...well, shit. Because it works. It spares his feelings when I've got some half-assed thing lodged in my craw and I'm liable to say damn near anything, and it spares mine, because he's right, there are times he *can't* do anything right except just...pull back. I should be grateful he does it. I sometimes wonder if we'd have been able to make it as a couple at all if it weren't for his willingness to do that, and believe me, it took a long time before he admitted that there are times when it's the only thing to do--you know him. King of talking things out. I know it's because he loves me enough to...to compromise with the way he deals with things, and the way I do...but I have to admit, every time he does it, it hurts just a little bit at first. Like he doesn't care enough to put up with me making an irrational, deliberately hurtful ass out of myself. But I always get over it." He rested his face in the hollow of his brother's neck, inhaling the sweet, warm, animal fragrance. 

"You know, Jim, it's about your insecurity." 

Jim blinked. "What?" 

"Me with Brian doesn't bother you. Blair with Brian doesn't bother you. But the idea of Blair and me, well, that scares the bejeezus out of you." 

"But why, if...if Brian...?" 

"Because you're expecting your feelings to be rational, Jim. If Blair has somebody else, or I do, that's no big deal, you're not afraid of being abandoned enough for _that_ to trip your trigger. But if the two people *you're* with get together, what place there could there possibly be for you? What would two people like Blair and me want with you if we have each other?" 

Jim was silent a long time. "That's a very good question." 

"You believe in yourself, and in our love, to a point. But past a point, your healthy self-image starts to break down and the fear starts to take over." 

"Um...if Brian and I were to...you know...would you mind? Do you think Blair would?" 

Stephen shook his head slowly. "I wouldn't mind. And Blair wouldn't, either." 

"I guess that makes me the wuss of the four of us. Brian was cackling like a cartoon witch at what happened with you and Blair." 

Stephen smiled a little, snugging back more firmly against Jim. "I'm gonna tell you something I wasn't going to, even though Brian said I could if it came up." 

"Tell me what." 

"Brian has a leeeeetle fantasy about me and him and Blair together. Until today I would have said no way, because Blair and I would be too busy feeling deeply weird about each other's presence to get into it, but now I'm a little less sure of that. Brian's also said that while he can't see him and you right now, he certainly wouldn't rule it out." 

"So I'm not only the least secure, I'm the biggest stick-in-the-mud." 

"The biggest sticks-in-the-mud are always the least secure, Jim. That's the way it works for everyone, in just about every area of life." 

"That's so compassionate." Jim began nuzzling around in Stephen's hair, inhaling through mouth and nose. "Gosh, I wish I'd been a sweetheart like you." 

"We love you, Jim, you know that. And this one's from me personally; I love you, Jimmy." 

"Yeah, I know. I love you too, baby." 

Stephen grew still, then turned his head a little to meet Jim's eyes, his own shining softly. "That's the first time you've called me that since...since you came back." 

"I guess...things are different now. We're different. You're not a baby any more. Not the kind I meant at first when I called you that when we were little, when I was trying to comfort you, or the kind I meant after we realized we were in love." 

"Too old to be your baby now, huh? I feel ancient." 

"Well, look at it this way. The difference seemed much larger when you were six and I was eight or nine, than now, with you thirty-five and me thirty-eight. Seems a little presumptuous of me." 

"I like it, though." 

"Then I'll call you that. When we're alone." 

"Or alone with Brian and Blair." 

"Yeah, or then." 

"Remember when you slipped up that one time and I had to drown you with a bottle of French's Mustard?" 

Jim stifled a soft laugh against Stephen's hair. "Yeah, I sure do." 

* * *

"You _moron_ , Stevie reiterated yet again, whacking Jim with the pillow. "Moron, moron, _moron_!" 

"I said I was sorry--it just slipped out!" 

"I _barely saved_ that one!" 

"And an impressive job you did, too," Jim said nervously, edging away around the desk as Stephen started to take aim again. 

" _Baby_?!" 

"I always fucking call you that! Look, who's the one who's usually all over _your_ ass about being more careful? How many of your slips have _I_ saved? And how often do I make mistakes like that? All right, all right, enough already." Jim managed to snatch the pillow and yank it out of Stevie's hands on the next swing. He dropped it on the bed and plopped down next to it, resting his forehead in his palms. 

"Yeah--you always _fucking_ call me that, as in when we _blow_ each other! It's not the kind of thing you say at a _church picnic_!" 

"'Baby'? It's not like I called you 'my little suck toy' or something. I call you baby all the time." 

Stevie flopped to the floor. "But never in front of people, not even before we started messing around. Like I said, I barely saved it. The whole table was fucking _frozen_ , Jim." 

"Yeah. Good aim with that squirt bottle, by the way," Jim said wryly. "I wonder if mustard comes out in the wash." He pulled off his shirt. "God, it reeks." 

"I'm just glad I didn't hit you in the eyes. That shit'd have to sting." 

"Yeah, anything that smells this bad would have to," Jim said, divesting himself of the rest of his mustard-blessed clothing. "Sally's gonna kill me." 

"At least you didn't get stuck with fifty Our Fathers for using the word 'prick'. I wonder how a priest manages when he has to describe the sensation of stabbing himself with a pin." 

"Stevie..." Jim paused, standing at the closet, with one hand resting on the lid of the laundry hamper. "I'm sorry, it was just...I was so...comfortable, I guess. I let my guard down. We _do_ have to do that _sometimes_." 

"I know," Stevie whispered, almost inaudibly. 

"And you kind of just fell against me, and Marjorie and I were laughing ourselves sick at something she said before you even plopped down next to me like that, and I just didn't..." 

"We could've gotten away with the arm around me, I think, Jimmy," Stevie said softly. "But when your kid brother asks you if you'll drive him and his friend to CYO, you're not supposed to give him the kind of smile that you gave me and say 'Sure, baby'. You were snuggling me, Jim, even if it was just for a second. I _know_ you were about to kiss me." 

"Maybe I was," Jim sighed softly. Then he smirked and said "I think it was the righteous outrage in your face when you jumped back away from me and yelled 'Prick!' and opened fire that did it--" 

"That wasn't righteous outrage, though it seemed to sub for it okay. It was stark horror." 

"--otherwise it'd be kind of hard to buy that having been some kind of kiddie slur. You're damn near as big as I am." 

"For the moment. Plus, I can't drive yet," Stevie reminded him, "which is probably the jab everybody thought you were making once I acted pissed." 

"It ever occur to you that we have to go through a lot of shit that other people don't, and that it's totally not fucking fair?" Jim wondered, ramming his clothes into the hamper, which was already overflowing. 

Stevie came up behind him, resting his hands on Jimmy's back. "I know. It sucks. But we have a lot to make up for it," he reminded his brother softly. He let his hands slide around the smooth, muscular body, pressing himself to Jim's back, kissing the nape of his neck softly, then biting it very gently. 

Jim groaned, turning in Stephen's arms and squeezing him close, kissing him soundly, framing his face with his hands and saying "I love you, baby. There, we're alone, so I can say it." 

"I love you too. And if you'd given me that smile and called me that and we'd been alone, we'd both be walking really carefully right now." They grinned at each other. 

"We've still got a shot. Nobody'll be home for a while." 

Stevie made a face. "I still have to go to CYO. I promised Ann." 

"You hate CYO." 

"Yeah. So does Ann. That's why I promised--because _she_ promised Sarah. I'm supposed to try to keep Ann sane." 

"Oh shit--you're talking about Sarah's soccer game?" 

"Forgot, did we?" 

"Yeah, and I told her I'd--um, Stevie, if we've gotta go to a fucking CYO soccer game I'd really appreciate it if you'd stop doing that to my ass. At least wait until I get some jeans on." 

"Sorry." Stevie smirked a little, but let his hands fall. "I told Ann we'd pick her up. Sarah's riding with Mary Angelica whateverthehell--" 

"Stefanowicz." 

"--and her crowd. They give Ann brain hemorrhoids and I can't really blame her." 

"You remembered to talk to Ann about the ride even after all the excitement with the mustard?" Jim was stepping into a pair of jeans. "Do I have time to shower?" 

" _One_ of us has to be responsible. And no, you don't have time. I told her we'd get her in about..." he craned around to look at the clock on the desk, finally giving up and letting go of Jim entirely. "...twenty minutes. With the clothes off you don't smell bad, don't worry." 

"Yeah, but it got in my hair." 

"I think the pitcher of soda water Mrs. Grise dumped over your head got rid of most of it. Jim, I used to like Sarah and everything, but why do you still hang out with her after she started hanging around with Mary and the freaking Soccer Socialites?" 

"Because she knows more about the X-Men than anybody else I've ever met. In private, Stevie, she's really okay. It's just the social pressure thing--it's not like we don't get _that_ rammed up our noses too, every time we fucking turn around. And she really loves soccer and her parents won't let her play with a school league. Sarah's really worried they're going to make her finish her high school credits at St. Francis Academy, instead of letting her graduate with the rest of us. By the way, speaking of them...if you want to stay friends with Ann, I think you better put some distance between the two of you. She's starting to look at you, like, you know." 

"Like I know what?" 

"Like she's probably gonna ask you out or something. Not just as friends. Once girls start looking at you like that, your days as friends are numbered." 

"Not everybody's as lucky as we are in terms of getting their action where they live, Jimmy," Stevie pointed out, then grinned and ducked as Jim dug the mustard-stained shirt out of the hamper and threw it at him, grinning too. Stevie shrugged. "Can I help it if women find me irresistible?" 

"You and Ann Patterson used to eat unwashed sweetgrass and build mud adobe art that looked like a giant turd had fallen out of the sky. You high-fived each other after the first time each of you managed to accomplish taking a dump without falling in. She probably thinks you'd be a good prospect to take her first major shot with, that's all. She already knows you." 

"Well, maybe she's right," Stephen observed, with an air of nonchalance. 

Jim finished pulling his shirt on. "Well," he said reasonably, "maybe she is. What do you think?" 

Stevie's nonchalance evaporated. "What do _you_ think?" he wondered softly. 

Jim came and sat down next to him. "You've never asked me about any of the girls you've gone out with before," he said softly. "Not even after we fell in love and everything." 

"You never seemed worried about any of them before," Stephen said. "Do you...if she does...do you want me to..." 

"Stephen, think about it. Do you still want to be with me?" 

"Of COURSE I still want to be with you! I'm going to go to a college I really don't want to go to so that you and I can finally really be together, and we're going to go off to God-knows-where after that, so we can--" 

"If you still want to do that--I mean, it's not like we can hang around _here_ and really be together the way we want--how much of a favor are you doing Ann by, you know. Taking her up on that kind of offer?" 

"You never said this about anyone else," Stevie said, very quietly. 

"That's because the Pattersons are different. Sarah and Ann both." 

"I guess you're right," Stephen said faintly. "You know what? I've never liked having to lie to Ann about us. I always wished I could tell _somebody_..." 

"Me too," Jim said gently. "Baby, if you thought you and Ann could...well, could have something like that without it either wrecking what you and she already have, or wrecking what you and _I_ have...if you had to break off something serious with her in a couple of years, she'd be...well, pissed. And if you didn't, you and me would be screwed. Those other girls were just...dates. Mine, too." 

"Ann deserves better," Stevie said quietly. "You're right. I just wonder what it...might be...I mean, if she was really interested. We don't even know that yet for sure." 

"I don't know, Stevie," Jim said softly. "I...we're not like other people our age. We're starting to have to make big decisions a lot sooner." 

"Is that because we're exceptionally mature, or because we fell in love?" Stevie wondered, doing his Spock eyebrow, with a small half-smile. 

Jim smiled back, a little sadly. "I don't know." 

Stephen was quiet a long moment, then leaned over and kissed Jim's cheek. "Well, we're gonna be late. Let's leave a note and get out of here." 

"Right behind you, Stevie baby." 

* * *

"We screwed like _weasels_ that night," Stephen sighed reminiscently. "I literally frayed my dick. I still wonder what Sally thought of all that Solarcaine in my shorts when she did the laundry." 

"Probably the same thing as about whatever spunk we missed cleaning up--that we were teenaged boys, and we spent about a third of our waking lives either jacking off or thinking about it. The occasional frayed dick is to be expected. But yeah, we went at it hard and long enough that night to forget how pissed off we were at having to cover ourselves up to the world. But I don't guess that's really changed, has it?" 

"Well...one thing. We have friends now. Who love us the way we are." 

"Maybe that's the most important thing about being a good guide. I don't really know, though; I could never hack Blair's job in a million years." 

"I could never take being in Brian's shoes. Sometimes I can't believe the things I put him through." 

"Well, if they agree to marry you, you know you must be doing enough right for them to put up with the rest." 

Stephen laughed softly. "Yeah. Say, yeah...Jim, I'm gonna get married. I hadn't thought of it that way--you know, oh wow, getting married--until you said that. It's all been oh-Jesus-what-a-tangle. We didn't decide to do it for the usual reasons. It just turned out to be the best of a lot of bad choices." 

"And it wasn't even your idea." 

Stephen snickered. "True. It's a suggestion Blair gave me in his sleep. I wonder how many people get married because their brother-in-law passed out and told them to?" 

Jim chuckled with him a moment, squeezing him close. 

"Speaking of brothers-in-law, you really have that much fun at Calice with Blair?" 

Stephen chuckled again, but soft and low, sounding like a male Jessica Rabbit. "I had a blast. So did he. I haven't laid on the charm for anybody like that since the last woman I dated." 

"Not even Brian?" 

"Well, considering we kind of officially got started with the event of his saving my life, and I was all naked and wet and dead and everything, it seemed a little late to worry about charming him. If I could get away with _that_ , I was home free anyway." 

"How long ago was your last girlfriend?" 

"Couple of years." 

"Was she the one who...?" 

"You've been eavesdropping." 

"No, I haven't--I resent that." Jim paused, then added self-righteously "I've been pumping Brian for information in the break room. He's starting to hide behind H when he sees me coming." 

Stephen cracked up. "Oh, okay, that's different...no, Jim. I don't want to talk about it right now." 

"Well...okay. You let me know if you do." 

"I will." 

"If you do tell me, can I kill whoever it was?" 

"No." 

"You never let me have any fun. You and Blair. At least Rafe doesn't mind if I kick the occasional ass. He just holds up score cards and tells me I should hit the mats more often." 

"You and Brian are the most macho gay men I've ever known." 

"Now, now--what would Blair say about that kind of stereotyping?" 

"Who cares? He's asleep." 

"We probably should be, too, you know. We've got...we've got a lot coming up for us this week." 

"I'm not really sleepy yet," Stephen murmured, turning his head to nuzzle Jim's neck, biting a little, the barest soft brush of teeth. "I was hoping you'd get into me...I'm already half there with you." 

"I know, I can tell, and I thought you'd never ask. The roof probably isn't the best place for that, though." 

"Well, then we might have a problem." 

"What?" 

"I'm not sure how to get down from here." 

"What?" Jim pulled away a little to fix his brother with a puzzled stare. "How do you usually?" 

"I've never been up here before. I climbed up the outside of the chimney, but I'm pretty sure I couldn't do that headed the other way. But I figure we can get through this here window...well, _I_ can, barely..." 

"I can't." 

"Okay, we lower you back over to the bedroom window, and I'll come in through the attic." 

"Make a stop in the bathroom to rinse the dust off?" 

"Meet me there and help?" 

"It's a deal." They kissed, long and deep. 

* * *

>Pt. Four: "Just like a ghost, you've been a haunt in my dreams, so I'll  
propose on Halloween--Love is Kind of Crazy With a Spooky Sentinel Like  
You..."

* * *

"No, no--shit. Yeah, hell, put it over there--where the hell are all these flowers coming from?" 

"Uh, I thought you needed to know things like that in your job, Stephen? Appropriate host gifts? It's a commitment celebration. You know. Like a wedding?" 

"You and Jim didn't get buried in wreaths and bouquets." 

"Jim let it be known that anybody who either sent or brought flowers into the loft should make sure they were equally suitable for funerals. And to bring their own casket." 

"Terrific. Too late for that. Jim and I are going to die right here in the middle of Brian's formal dining room." 

"Dial it down, man--" 

"Blair, there's dialing it down, and there's cutting off your nose to spite the--yeah, over here, on the sideboard. Hell, if one more person looks at me funny for calling this fucking mahogany condominium a sideboard--" 

"Try to calm down, Stephen." 

"And where the HELL is Brian?" 

"He's in his bedroom having a conniption. Can't you hear him?" 

"I'm so dialed down I can't hear myself curse. What's wrong with him?" 

Blair leveled a droll look at Stephen. "What do you think? This is Brian." 

Stephen sighed. "He still can't decide what to wear, can he?" 

Blair shook his head, grinning evilly. "Steve, why don't you go up and give him a hand? I'll look after things down here. And you need to relax, man. You're ruining your rep. I've never seen you get so worked up over anything." 

"I've never been married before," Stephen groaned mournfully. "I think I'm experiencing a minor cardiac event." 

"No, you're not. You're going to be fine. Shoo." Blair patted Stephen's butt affectionately. "People are starting to arrive; I've got to go be hostly. If you see Jim, send his ass on in here, will you?" 

Upstairs in the master bedroom, Brian was sitting in the middle of the bed, amidst the clothes strewn all over it. It looked like there had initially been some attempts at maintaining order and preventing crushed fabric and wrinkles, but that time was no more. 

Jim was holding up a pair of slacks. "You look good in these." 

"Jim, those are _black_. It's bad luck." 

"So like, a groom in a tux is bad luck? Christ, Rafe! What happened to the guy who crawled a mile and a half through the sewer with me, carrying fifteen pounds of vibration-sensitive explosive and three loaded rifles strapped across his back? And who called me a waste of bumwipe because I couldn't stop sneezing and the echoes were threatening to set off the plastique--so he had to take _my_ load as well, and set all the charges himself, to keep us in one piece and the noise from alerting everybody within five miles of the target?!" 

Rafe glowered. "He broke a nail and got the vapors." 

Stephen stifled a snort with one hand. 

Jim looked back and forth between Stephen and Brian, and finally just shook his head. "Jesus. One little party and you both turn into drama queens." 

"Blair wants you downstairs, Jim," Stephen said, smiling a little. 

"Rafe, Stephen will be happy if you're naked. Just get your ass down there, I can hear people arriving." In disgust, Jim strode out, shaking his head. 

Stephen went over to where Brian was holding out his hand and took it. Squeezing lightly, he chuckled "They're right. We're worthless, aren't we?" 

"It's not even like this legally means anything, or even like it's a real commitment ceremony. It's just us and our friends and a little thank-you-for-being-here speech. It's just a _party_. I had a _great_ time at the one Jim and Blair threw." 

"So did I. I wasn't the one getting married." 

"You have a point." 

"Brian, you do look good in these." Stephen picked up the pants Jim had been trying to sell Rafe on. "In fact, with that blue silk shirt and your black Gucci ankle boots--the flats? And that diamond stud you wear in your ear sometimes, well...that's my favorite outfit on you." 

"Stephen. I look like a fucking flaming nancyboy in that outfit, which is fine for some things, but--" 

"A little, maybe. But you also look tanned and tall and cut and generally perfect. I love the high waist on these things. Sets your ass off perfectly." 

"I don't wanna get married looking like a showgirl!" 

"You never look like a showgirl, Brian. Showgirls do not swagger the way you do--" 

"I don't swagger. I just have a long stride." 

"--but if that's how you feel about it, stop whining and get into something like your unbleached linen suit. It's understated, it looks great on you, it's right for the season, and it just came back from the cleaners." 

"Yeah, they had to get the stains out of it after Miguel Ramon Prendez pissed all over me when I tackled him. Fucking stoner. You know, they never told me that getting bodily fluids eliminated on me was going to be such a big part of being a cop." 

Stephen broke up laughing. "Christ, you're being a bitch. Great, I'm hysterical, and you hate life. Should we just elope?" 

Rafe cracked up too. "Gimmie those pants, Ellison. I got a wedding to get to." 

* * *

Jim blinked, standing there at Brian's front door. 

"Hey, Jimmy. Going to let me in?" 

"Caro!" Jim held his arms out and got a hug. 

"You've got a blocked line, here, Jimmy, let's get out of the way." Jim edged her over to one side of the front porch as some of Blair's friends from the university waved to Jim and were in turn waved inside. 

Jim said "What...well, wow. Um..." 

Carolyn broke up. "I can leave again." 

"I'm just...surprised." 

"You sent me an invitation, Jim." 

"Yeah, but I sure as hell didn't expect you to show up." 

"Sorry to disappoint you." 

"Caro, you know I'm glad you're here, it's just that you never even met Stephen while we were married." 

"And I still haven't. Do I get to see the grooms before the big event?" 

"There is no big event--well, not a formal one. They have a little speech planned, that's all. Mostly, to be frank...this is the kind of thing a lot of same-sex couples do, to, well..." 

"You send out the invitations and see who shows up, right? And that's when you know who your friends--and your real family--are. Easier than getting slapped in the face one at a time, every time someone you thought you could trust cold-shoulders you." 

"That's about the size of it. I'm glad you came, Caro. Is Don with you?" "He couldn't make it; he's in Sacramento for the week. He sends his regards. So, where's the little brother?" 

"He's around somewhere, I'm sure. Come on in." 

"This," she said, rubbernecking around, "is a _beautiful_ old house." 

"It's the kind of place it's completely impossible to buy any more, short of having a few spare millions to throw away; you have to be born into them." 

"I take it Brian was." 

"Yeah. His uncle, his dad's older brother, left it to him. Well, actually he left it to Brian's sister, but they agreed to switch their inheritances because she's got MS. She needed the stock and investment portfolio Brian would have gotten a lot worse than the house, and there's no way she could keep this place up herself." 

"Well." Carolyn's eyes wandered the crowded parlor and other rooms she could see from their vantage point. "I guess your guys are lucky. Looks like all their friends came." 

"Most of them. Some of them RSVP'd that they couldn't make it, but they sent cards, little gifts, even though Brian and Stephen specified it was a no-gift deal. Except for those damn flowers, and we're gonna be able to fill Brian's new pool with champagne if this keeps up. There's one notable absence, one I personally am pretty sorry about--Stephen's friend Marah Simmons. She's been...she's been a very great help to all of us while...things have been in such a state of upheaval. But we...Stephen and Brian set the date just a week ago, and it turns out she's on vacation in Nepal. She actually offered to fly back, but Stephen wouldn't let her. Told her we could have another celebration when she got back." 

"Oh, my God." 

"Intimidating, isn't it?" Jim agreed as they entered the formal dining hall--or what had been the formal dining hall; Brian himself never went in there except to clean something. 

"What was this, a ballroom?" 

"Formal dining room, Brian says." 

"If you don't mind my asking..." 

"I wish I could tell you, but Brian doesn't even know exactly what to call it. He's pretty sure there is a word for a sideboard/storage cabinet/whatever that big and that elaborate, but he's never bothered to find out." 

"It's beautiful. But how'd they get it in here? The ceiling is two stories up and that thing nearly touches it." 

"It comes apart into sections. Not that you could tell once they get it back together. Brian says it looks like a cathedral." 

"He's right. Hi, Blair." 

"Carolyn! This is so great. Can I get you something to drink?" 

"Yeah, sure--we were looking for Stephen." 

"Oh, right, you've never met him, have you? He's still trying to get some clothes on Rafe." 

Carolyn smirked. "Can't they wait until after the party for that kind of thing?" 

Blair snickered. "You don't know Rafe. The depth and intimacy of his relationship with his wardrobe is legendary." 

"He's not _that_ bad," Jim temporized. "But yeah, for something like this, I can definitely see him metamorphosing into a prima donna. As a matter of fact, I _did_ see--" 

"Carolyn! Wasn't sure whether to expect you." 

"Hi, Simon." 

Jim excused himself, saying he was going to try to track Stephen down. 

His ears led him to the kitchen, where he found Rafe and Stephen both, fussing around and pissing off the caterers, who were trying to work around their well-intentioned but totally counterproductive efforts. "Stephen? Caro's here." 

"As in Carolyn?" Stephen stopped stock still and was bumped into by one of the caterers. "Oops. Sorry." 

"Ooh. The ex-wife?" Rafe said. Stephen had apparently convinced Rafe of the merits of the black pants. 

"Don't worry," Jim reassured them both. "She's on our side. In fact, when she found out about me and Blair, she was relieved. She said it took a big weight of guilt off her about the divorce for me to have ended up with a guy, since, while she couldn't say for certain I hadn't had any kind of point about expecting her to be more understanding, there's _no_ way I could have expected her to have a dick." Rafe and Stephen both got big-eyed, and Jim said, semi-apologetically, "She does tend to tell it like it is, so you might want to watch out for that." 

"Hell. 'Lay on, MacDuff, and cursed be he who first cries "Hold, enough"'," Rafe said. 

"You're so literary," Stephen cooed with patent insincerity. Rafe swatted him and followed Jim back into the dining hall, Stephen in tow. 

Sandburg's students and colleagues were ransacking the buffet. It already looked like the aftermath of a Hottentot attack. The caterers were removing decimated trays from the dining table--a single rectangular expanse of mahogany that resembled an ice rink, both in size and reflective capacity--and replacing them with fresh ones. Blair was hanging out near the "sideboard" with a group of the younger students, talking animatedly about homosexual marriage customs in different cultures. At the moment they seemed to be in the middle of a breakdown of the relevant segments of Brehon Law in pre-Christian Ireland. 

"At least *he's* having a good time," Stephen noted. 

"They all are. They don't see this much free food twice in a year," Jim muttered back to him. "Where'd she go...ah. She's with Simon and Connor and H, by the bay windows. 

"Uh, Jim," Stephen suddenly said in a choked voice. "Turn around very slowly." 

"Is there a bee on me?" 

"No. Dad at twelve o'clock high." 

Jim's tumbler of punch hit the floor as his other fist clenched. 

"Come on, Jim," Stephen said softly. "We planned it this way on purpose. I even called him up to verify, and I'm not wasting the amount of guts _that_ took." 

"I'll get the glass," Rafe said. "You go...do what you have to do. And Jim--this is the closest thing Stephen and I are going to get to a wedding, barring state legislation that I don't expect to see in my lifetime; so no scenes, or and H and I will have to hurt you, okay?" 

Jim just glowered at Rafe, who was accepting a towel from one of the caterers who'd come to help with the spill. 

As they started across the floor, Jim reached over and took Stephen's hand. Stephen hissed and pulled it back. "Jim!" 

"What, we can screw each other in private, but you won't hold my hand in public?" Jim hissed back, no particular malice in his whispered tone, rolling his eyes slightly. "I'm just trying to be sup--" Stephen spun on his heel and stopped; Jim bumped into him, surprised. He realized he couldn't have pried Stephen off his spot on the polished hardwood floor with a Yard Weasel. "What?" 

"Jim, you are still pissed about what I told you a week ago and I am not going to let you use this as an opportunity to get in his face. In any way, shape or form, including touching me in ways that are just a _little_ too intimate, but not _quite_ enough so to actually comment on." 

Jim gulped. "Kiddo, that's really starting to creep me out." 

Stephen ignored him. "This is _my_ show, bro. If you can't hack it, take off and I'll tell everyone you ate a bad canape or something. And if you don't take off, and you make an obnoxious ass out of yourself at my little event here, I will tell you off in front of this entire ballroom full of people and damn the consequences. And then H and Brian will hurt you, and then Blair will finish you off slowly with a potato peeler. Are we clear?" 

The high possibility of that last, or at least some version of it, was what finally caused Jim to slump and nod. 

"You better not be shitting me, Jimmy. My partners are supposed to be here soon. You will not fuck with me in front of them, have you got that?" 

"Not shitting you, Stevie. One thing." 

Stephen eyed him warily. "What?" 

"What if _he_ starts it?" 

"Then _I_ will finish it. Not you, and not Brian. Clear?" 

Jim sighed. "Clear, Stephen. But hey...you were the one who wanted to kiss me on the lips in front of him. What's a little hand-holding to that?" 

Stephen managed a small return smile. "Jim, I stand by what I said, when I said I wouldn't mind throwing how much we have always loved each other, despite everything, in his face. And I would be proud, on any other occasion, to sit in your lap and feed you bonbons, but that isn't terribly appropriate at what's supposed to be a celebration of Brian's and my commitment. There are _reporters_ here, Jim, for *Gods'* sake! Do you want your trademark snide comments all over the Business and Society pages? Simon would hang you out to dry. We all have obligations, public ends to hold up--you, me, Dad, Brian, everybody. Bite the bullet and behave yourself. Remember, we are sailing a _serious_ lucky streak with this whole thing so far. *Don't*..." dramatic pause, "...fuck it up." 

"I won't, Stephen." 

"Well, okay then. You can touch me if you want--in an appropriate manner for the setting. Let's get this over with." Stephen set his hand on Jim's shoulder, and left it there as he turned and they began to move toward where William Ellison, in the company of two other men, was chatting with Rafe's sister, Carol, and his mother, Saoirse. 

"Oh, Jim--Jesus, is that uncle Gene?" 

Jim faltered as well. "Schist. It is. His hair is completely _gone_. I never even knew it went grey." 

"Do you think he's in town just for this?" 

"I don't know, baby." 

"Jim..." 

"Nobody heard." 

"Of course nobody heard, we're practically subvocalizing; just come on," Stephen said, and didn't object when Jim laid a hand on his lower back as they navigated the crowd. 

William, nodding at something Saoirse was saying, suddenly froze, spying the two coming toward them. As the host, Stephen held his hand out to his father. "Dad. I'm glad you could make it," he said quietly. He let go of William's hand and reached for Gene's. "Uncle Gene, this is a surprise, to say the least. Were you just in town?" 

"As a matter of fact, I was visiting William, but I'm glad I was here, my boy," Gene Ellison said, patting Stephen's shoulder. The surgery for the cancer that had aged him so quickly had left him without much voice; it was gravelly and broke frequently, but his words were understandable. "It's been a long time." 

"It sure has." Stephen grinned. "Remember that black bear you fed? Who stole the preserve jar? How long ago was that?" 

Gene chuckled. "I believe...yes, you had just turned eighteen." 

"Would _you_ believe Jim and I recently had an experience with a little brown bear who followed us around the whole time we were camping up by Skykomish creek?" 

Gene smiled a little. "What did you feed him?" 

"Jim?" Stephen looked around. "Want to take over, tell uncle Gene about it? Saoirse, Carol, nice you could come...Dad, Brian just had a pool put in out back. Want to come take a look?" 

William nodded stiffly, and he and Stephen extricated themselves from the group. 

"Well," said Saoirse, " _that_ was clumsy, for Stephen. He missed the introduction to Percy." 

"Please forgive him, Saoirse, Carol, uncle Gene--he's more nervous than I think I've ever seen him. So you're Percy, I take it?" 

"Percival Mallory." The nondescript middle-aged man held a hand out to Jim. "You don't know me, but I'm your cousin, through a remove or two." 

"I met Percy on a hunting trip in North Wales," Gene said. "It turns out his branch of the family had settled in Seattle." 

"I see. Well, we're glad you could make it. I'm sure Dad can use all the moral support he can get." 

*Jim. Behave yourself.* 

Jim turned away from the other four, faking a cough into his handkerchief. "Stephen, pay attention to what you're doing. I've got enough watchdogs on me." 

*Just remember you promised.* 

"I haven't forgotten." 

* * *

"Well," Stephen said as he and William paused on the mosaic-tile patio, where the fountain-birdbath bubbled softly. Stephen reached up and idly traced a finger through the shimmering turbulence at the center of the waist-high, round pool; he spent just a moment remembering his own gleeful reaction to Jim's introduction of his newly sentinel-sensitive fingers to the wonders of softly burbling water. "Where shall we start, Dad?" 

William noticed the brief gesture with the fountain. His eyes lingered on it a moment, but apart from a slight thinning of his lips, he didn't comment. "Perhaps we could start with when you decided to be...a homosexual, and perhaps why you did not see fit to tell me." 

"When I was a kid, about when I turned fourteen, I _realized_ I was bi. My first lover was another man. Well, a boy, really, close to my age, whom I loved very much. Still do. And I didn't tell you for the same reason I've never asked you what _you_ do in bed. That's nobody else's business." 

There was a frozen moment. Stephen wondered if his knees were going to start shaking. 

No. Breathe. Everything flows from the breath...Stephen reached for Brian's heartbeat, and let his guide's hypnotic voice play through his mind and body. He watched the water shimmering around the edges of the swimming pool, and breathed. 

Finally William, seemingly fascinated by the glimpses of the Sound visible through the thick trees that bordered the back of Brian's rolling semi-park of a backyard, managed "I see. And did I know this...boy?" 

"Yes, you did. No, I won't tell you who he is. I know all you want to do is accuse him of corrupting me, and it wasn't that way. I made the first move." 

"'First move'?" William wondered, eyes narrowing. 

"We made love in the shower after a hockey game. And I was on top." 

William actually seemed to shrink slightly. 

Stephen smiled, small and cold. "Don't ask questions you're not sure you want to hear the answers to, Dad." 

"I simply...find it impossible to...you've _always_..." 

"Been interested in women, yes, I have. I wasn't with another man until Brian, because my first lover and I had a very painful separation. I was young, and it hit me hard. It was difficult to be with another man without thinking of him, so I stuck with women." 

"I only ask because..." 

Stephen did his Spock eyebrow. "Because?" 

"You must be aware that even after you left the company against my wishes, I did not cease to...to have an interest in your career, to follow it." 

"Yes, I know you've done that. But since I've never slept my way into a job, I fail to see what that has to do with my sex life. Or are we off that topic now?" 

"Stephen. You cannot believe I would not be _aware_ of...of something like this, if it were...if it were really you. You have reached the point of publicly announcing your...connection to this--man--" 

"And you had no idea I was even seeing him. Well, I've been seeing him socially for a long time. There's been an interest most of that time, though neither of us acted on it at once. But, what with one thing and another, things between us began to move very quickly...and here we are." 

"You can, practically out of the blue, announce to the world your relationship with this man, when you canceled a two-year engagement with Frances? Stephen, it simply isn't reasonable." 

"Dad, I know you liked Frances. She liked you, too. She liked your money and your connections, and you liked the same about her family. Unfortunately, I learned--to my chagrin--that neither of you were terribly fond of me." 

William turned to look at him. "Frances was in love with you, Stephen. And I--" 

"Frances was not in love with me, Dad. I got the news from her own lips. Frankly I'm still curious as to why _you_ didn't marry her. The two of you are perfectly suited." 

"That's preposterous. Frances is half my age." 

"That wouldn't have bothered her. What bothered Frances was that she knew that would be your attitude about it, and that Jim was pretty much estranged from the family; leaving her with only a younger son. Socially speaking, it was less than what she'd hoped for." 

"Stephen..." William really looked at him, this time, his eyes opening almost wide enough to see. "What are you saying?" 

"I'm saying that Frances finally lost patience with pretending she loved me. One night we were having one of our many oh-so-civilized disagreements. Have you ever tried to find out what it is you've done _so_ wrong so that your fiancee manages to find excuses to avoid sleeping with you for three months straight-- _without_ using any graphic language? I was glad for my practice with diplomatic phrasings. Well, she finally laid it out for me. She did not love me, she never had loved me, and she couldn't understand my pathetic insistence on clinging to these maudlin notions of love in an advantageous marriage. She wanted me to wake up and smell her contempt. But I couldn't, at first. It was too painful. She told me she'd be back for her things. I caught her arm, and I begged her to stay, because I thought...I asked for the chance to _make_ her love me, to be whatever she wanted, because I loved her. Well, you should have _heard_ her. Such language. I wonder where she learned that kind of trash talk. Certainly not from her parents, I'm sure." 

William was just staring, stricken, at Stephen's impassive countenance. "Stephen, I had no idea." 

"It's not the kind of story I like to spread around." 

"But you seemed so happy." 

"One thing Frances and I did have in common was our considerable acting talents. I may have loved her, or at least have sincerely believed I did--but I was not happy. But Dad, what hurt even more than her rejection of me personally was her spitting on the value of love like that. Brian is the first person to convince me that not everyone who isn't...who isn't my first lover thinks the way she does. Dad..." 

Stephen stepped around the fountain and took William's shoulders. As always, he felt a strange sense of vertigo as it became apparent he was inches taller than his father. It made him feel as if the world were tilting on its axis. "...I know that you thought you knew everything about me. I know that you think I've gone off the deep end, that I have some kind of strange rebellious streak that's making me do what I'm doing with Brian, ignoring the ramifications it could have on all our lives. It's easier for you to believe that, than to realize you've been completely wrong about me, who I am, what I believe, why I do the things I do--for most of my life, and I don't expect you to come around in that regard. 

"But think about this, Dad--if you can really believe you're happy, doesn't that count for something? I never believed I was happy with Frances, or Terry or Cheryl. I believed, though, that I was making you happy, and that I was doing the proper thing, and I believed that _could_ make me happy if only _I_ could figure out what the secret to it was, what it was I was doing wrong." He shook his head. "With Brian, I feel happy. I feel...real, in a way I haven't since my first lover, since our friendship had to bow to our safety, and he couldn't make himself risk coming back to me even after the immediate danger was past. Brian makes me feel things I never have before. He makes me like myself, the way that first love of mine did. He...he brings out potentials in me I never knew I had. Dad--there is so much more to me than I ever thought. I'm finding out things about my soul, my body, my mind--a lot of them I used to know, years ago, before...before that first lover and I lost each other, but I'd forgotten them so thoroughly it was as though they'd never been. I have them back now, and so much more than that...Dad..." Stephen trailed off, William's incomprehension impinging on every single one of his senses. He lowered his head, eyes stinging. 

"Stephen...I know you may find this difficult to believe, but I realize _you_ believe what you're saying. But I know you better than you could possibly understand, better than you know yourself. I've never given up on you, please believe that." 

Stephen bit his lip to stifle the automatic bark of laughter that leaped up his throat. 

"I know that you believe you've found the secret to happiness, and you won't be particularly interested in hearing this, but...while love, even happiness, are fine things--they are no substitute for security. Love fades. Happiness can succumb to the slightest mishap, a single piece of bad luck that brings your entire world crashing down. But real security _lasts_. And what you are doing here is jeopardizing your security more than anything else you could possibly do--and the security of many other people besides." 

Stephen, hearing the plaintive tone of the words, words that thought they were compassionate, wanted to cry. He swallowed deeply. "Security is fleeting too, Dad. Ask anyone who's lost their job, their home, ask any of the jumpers on Black Friday--" 

"Which is why a man must make certain he can't be touched! Poor planning can be anyone's downfall, but you're better than that. You have the greatest talent of any man of your generation that I've--" 

"And I'll still have that...talent, no matter what happens." 

"Your talents will get you nothing if no one will do business with you." 

Stephen smiled slightly. "I suppose I might have to get into another line of work, in that case." 

William shook his head angrily and turned away, staring at the Sound again. 

"Dad, I love him." 

William tensed, but remained silent a moment, before saying "I have met Detective Rafe, you know." 

"Yes, I know. The strangler case. He told me." 

"His work is very dangerous." 

"I know that, too. It was a lot more dangerous when he was still with SWAT, though." 

"If you were to lose him...would it still be worth what you had done to your life? If he were killed tomorrow? Would it be worth what you may cost yourself through this?" 

"I can't live my life like that, Dad. Refusing to love anyone because it might not work out? I said this to Jim once, almost...in another life, that nothing _in_ life is certain. That's not a good enough reason to sit the whole thing out. Or, in your case, to do the next best thing--build a fortress as strong as you can, one just for you; and never leave it. That would, after all, be the safest possible thing." 

"Frances was right about one thing. You do seem to be plagued by romantic notions." The tone was quiet, noncommittal. 

Stephen smiled again, just a little. "I was always the dreamy one. Remember?" 

William glanced around sharply, eyeing Stephen with laser intensity. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?" 

Stephen only shrugged. "I guess not, but one thing you should know, Dad. I pulled all the bugs. And I know about the rest. The surveillance. It's going to stop." 

William frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about." 

"You've been having me watched since I was out of college." 

William shook his head. "Nothing extreme. I told you I followed your career--" 

"You followed my assistants. You followed my business life, my social life..." 

"Stephen, you're mistaken. I had no checks run that were not wholly for _your_ protection, to prevent your being...exploited, for your talents, cheated by those who would take advantage of your...your vulnerability, your idealism--" 

"You don't need cameras for that. A phone call to ask me how things are going and offer a few words of advice would do that job." 

"I don't understand. Cameras?" 

"Okay, Dad, never mind. You don't know anything about it. I believe you. Just so you know that it's going to stop." Stephen stepped across the tiles to touch his father's shoulder. "Now that all that's out of the way, why don't we go back in. I'm sure my partners are here by now; it'll have been a while since you've seen them professionally; you don't really move in the same circles any more. You can get caught up." 

William sighed, silently acknowledging Stephen's smoothing over of the irreconcilable. "Might be pleasant, at that." 

"And you can meet Brian's family. They're going to be your in-laws, for all practical purposes." 

"I suppose I should be more grateful that this is not, in fact, any kind of genuine legal joining." 

"Maybe you should. But think about it. Brian's not hurting. At least he wouldn't take me for half of everything if we broke up, unlike some others who shall remain nameless. I'm glad you're here, Dad. It's important to me that you came." 

William nodded, wordless, unable to meet Stephen's eyes. 

"Come on. Let's go in." 

* * *

*Jim.* 

Whoever that was, they could fuck off and die. 

*Jim, you've gotta answer me. I can't move.* 

No. Let ME die. 

*Jim, if anybody is gonna be able to get their shit together enough to function, here, it'll be us. Now answer me, dammit, before I puke. There's somebody on my belly and talking is a problem.* 

Oh, shit. "Stephen?" 

*I caught that. Keep talking. Where are you?* 

"I'm...uh...Stephen, I'm in bed with, uh, Rafe." 

*Whose bed, and is there anybody else with you?* 

"His bed. And yeah. Not in the bed, though, on the rug. No, wait--there's someone on our feet." 

*Who?* 

"I can't turn around to look, Rafe is on my back." 

*Then we're even, because I just figured out that the reason I can't move is that I'm speaking to you from beneath a heat-seeking Sandburg. His chest is on my ear. He's starting to wiggle. Requesting instructions, Jim.* 

"Stephen, can you give me any kind of a situation here?" 

*I've counted at least a dozen people scattered through the house, but they're all, to put it mildly, asleep. And my hearing keeps futzing out on me. I get lost and have to start over. We gotta get on our feet somehow, Jim. Strategy?" 

"Brian's done the low-dials routine with you, right?" 

*Oh, yes. That's the reason I'm still talking to you.* 

"What we gotta do is dial down pain far enough to function, without blissing on a natural-opiate rush. You know that's what we do, right? We endorphin it to death." 

*I have a guide too, Jim.* 

"Right, okay. Take it down a little..." 

*How far? I've got the theory backwards and forwards, but I'm weak on application.* 

"Do you still swear never to take another drink as long as you live?" 

*Yes. Of champagne, at least.* 

"If you move, will you puke or faint?" 

*No.* 

"That's far enough. Can you get out from under Sandburg?" 

*I can try...urfff...no, Blair, leggo me...Jim, do I smell like you or something? He won't let go. He's cuddling. Damn, he's got my leg with his knees.* 

"Is he sniffing you?" 

*Sort of. He's making wet little snuffling noises right behind my ear. Geez, Blair...* 

"Then you must smell like me. Okay, what you do here is, you find his ear and get it where you can blow in it. Then blow a short blast, really hard, and when he makes that pissy noise and curls up, give him a good shove and make a roll for it." 

*Okay, here goes...(blow)(Mng!)(thud)...I did it, he's off, but he's crawling after me pretty fast.* 

"Quick, get some ground between you--he can be persistent, especially if he's lying on a cold floor. Just out of curiosity, where are you?" 

*If I knew that I'd've told you already...okay, I think I can stand up...oh, God, light--* 

"Dial sight down quick." 

*I'd figured that much...okay, I'm in the upstairs parlor. I was under the writing desk.* 

"Well, you know where to find me. Come roll Brian off me so we can make some sense of this." 

*Oh, Jesus...* 

"What's wrong?" 

*The air hurts.* 

"You know what to do. If I may make a suggestion, just stay where you are--unless Blair goes for your ankle--until you have everything dialed down to the point it's just enough to let you get around." 

*Good idea...breathe...(soft long inhale, soft long exhale, etc.) Okay. I can move. I'll be there in whoa Jesus.* 

"Don't push it. Just creep along until you're used to the dials that low." 

*Right. I just hope I don't fall down the main staircase.* 

"Take baby steps." 

*Okay, I can't die now because I have to live long enough to kill you. Thanks, Jim.* 

"Anytime, baby." 

Jim felt Rafe getting jostled. He and Rafe both groaned loudly. 

"Sweetie punkin' honey pie?" came Stephen's voice from overhead. "We've got a situation on our hands, here, so could you pull out of my brother?" 

Rafe, apparently not awake enough to notice he was fully dressed, made a noise not often heard in nature and nearly killed Jim via driving his hands and knees so hard into Jim's back and thighs that he flew across the mattress and off the side without even one bounce. And he'd gone the long way. 

Jim didn't even try to move for a bit after that; he just lay there watching the brand new stars and pretty colors. "By the way, Stevie, who was on our feet?" 

"Simon. Now he's on the floor and he looks pretty pissed." 

"Rafe, you idiot damn queernelly, what the fuck are you doin'?!" 

Rafe was invisible over the other edge of the bed when Jim opened his eyes, as the former croaked "Trying to see if I just broke Megan. And figuring out the fastest way to become a widower." 

"Broke what part of Megan?" Jim wondered. 

"Every bleedin' bloody buggerin' part," came a strained, breathy soprano from the approximate location of Rafe's voice. "Give a sheila a little warning when you're planning to give a new church a go. And by the way, your technique needs work." 

"You all right, Connor?" Simon wondered, rubbing his face with both hands. 

"Oh," a small snort, "happy as Larry. Rafe, nick off." 

There was the sound of a body being dumped to the side on a hardwood floor, and a small grunt of protest. "Hey." 

"Why am I on the floor?" came a plaintive query from the direction of the doorway. Blair was crawling carefully into the room. His head was hanging straight down and he seemed to be feeling his way. 

"And the gang's all here," Stephen sighed, and managed a chuckle. 

* * *

First order of business; find all the bodies and determine how many were salvageable. There actually _were_ sober people present as well, of course, as designated emergency handlers; they were just still asleep. (It'd been a pretty late night for them, too.) Rafe volunteered the information that there was still a big pile of leftover cement ingredients in the stables for the disposition of any corpses, and that he didn't mind if the pool was a couple of feet shallower in a good cause. 

Jim and Stephen were two of the next most functional present, for obvious reasons; also coherent was Megan, who had actually been only a little buzzed (because "...champagne makes me have indiscriminate sex...in your dreams, Sandy") and who had been pretty comfy on a pile of cushions until Rafe's abrupt arrival. She volunteered to assist any female survivors who might be in a painful and difficult way with cleaning up, in the big bathroom on the ground floor. The guys were exiled to the various water closets and half baths and the upstairs bathrooms. All in all, they found fourteen people. Four were not going anywhere soon under their own power, and the DEH's arranged for their disposal; the rest, after careful infusions of hot tea and oatmeal, could either drive or catch a ride, or decided to cab it and come back for their cars later. 

And at the crack of three p.m., the cleaning service showed up. The first person in line, a probable college kid, looked uncertainly around and asked "Is _this_ the place that said we'd need safety netting?" 

* * *

Megan, Jim and Stephen were lending a somewhat spiritless hand in the formal dining room, dragging out filled trashbags and such, and circulating to keep an eye on the cleaning crew for Rafe, who was upstairs, back in bed, with Blair. Simon was out taking a stroll ("...fast as I'm gonna patrol anything _today_ , by God") around the property to check for casualties, lost property, stolen property, burnt property, human-shaped holes in the swimming pool cover, squatters in the stables and sheds, etc. 

Megan paused in her scooping of Rice Krispy Treat fragments into what appeared to be a large hatbox, and gazed up at two of the cleaning crew members, secured in their safety netting, trepidatiously moving the polished mahogany ladders back and forth on their built-in rollers, watching so as not to squish those working farther down. As they moved, they checked each and every bin, drawer, compartment, swing-out pantry and cubby for God-knew-what. 

"Wouldn't it be a ripper if they found an old forgotten stash of family jewelry or quid or something?" 

"Not if Rafe had to pay taxes on it," Jim pointed out. "More likely somebody threw up in a drawer." 

"You're no fun, Jim," Stephen said, dragging a bag past. "By the way, Megan, if you were staying to keep an eye on us sloshed types, why didn't you haul Blair and me into the bedroom with everybody else?" 

"I tried. You wouldn't come. I stuck my head into the upstairs parlor and you said you were busy. You were on the floor in the dark with a laptop, and you sounded pretty good, so I--" 

Stephen froze. "Did we say what we were doing?" 

"No. I assumed some game of Sandy's." Megan kept scooping. 

Stephen dropped his bag, it's contents scattering. 

"Hey," said Megan, "what's this? Stephen?" 

"Stevie, what's the matter?" Jim wondered. "So you farted around on Blair's laptop. I doubt you guys had enough coordination to get his modem working, if you could even find the damn card in his backpack or a phone line to plug into, and he's got everything backed up about three times; he couldn't have lost anything cru--" 

"Jim, I brought enough of my home office components over here to get started using the upstairs parlor as an office. Brian's already gotten some of the connections installed up there. That was _my office_ laptop and it's completely lined in!" 

"To where?" 

"Everywhere! I'm a _partner_! As in, the fucking main computers at MBE database headquarters just for _starters_!" 

Megan's head came up. "Ohhhh shit." 

"Megan, stay here with the cleaning crew," Jim called over his shoulder as he followed the frantic beat of Stephen's footsteps down the hallway, around the corner and up the stairs. 

Jim burst into Rafe's room and didn't bother trying to untangle Blair and Brian; he just threw his arms around the main body of the unit and hauled it onto the floor. 

"OW! Jim, what the fuck!" 

"Come on!" Jim grabbed the arm Blair had pulled from behind Brian's back and was conducting his spluttering person down the long hallway and around the two corners. 

"Uh, Stephen...your computer's all over the floor," Blair said in confusion. 

"We probably couldn't stay upright and hauled it off the desk," Stephen said, typing furiously. "Too bad we didn't pull any of the connections out." 

"Huh?" said Blair, as Brian arrived groggily, rubbing his eyes, robe hanging open. 

Stephen gestured impatiently at the writing desk. "We woke up under there, remember?" 

"No..." 

"Megan said we were on the computer and we wouldn't come with her because we were busy. It was dark in here and she didn't know I'd brought some things over already, and that Brian had had data transfer lines and what have you installed--she thought it was your computer." 

Everyone waited nervously, trying to peek past Stephen's shoulder, as his fingers flew over the keyboard. Different screens flashed by so fast they made sense to no one but Stephen, since he was the only one who really knew what he was looking at in most cases of MBE-specific displays. 

"Well?" Blair said tensely, as Jim filled the puzzled--and soon horrified--Rafe in on the situation. 

"Hang on. There are some more things to check...I'm okay so far...one more thing..." 

Another long pause. 

"Well?" This time it was Rafe. 

"Oh my Gaaa..." Stephen covered his face with his hands and fell over on his back. 

"What?!" Jim demanded. "What did you do?" 

"Just ruined my life, that's all." 

" _What_?!" Blair said, lunging for the laptop. He tapped keys tensely for a moment, then stared at the screen in perplexity. "Stephen..." 

"I answered my e-mail," Stephen groaned. 

Jim and Rafe blinked. "Um...did you call anybody a bad name or something?" Jim wondered. 

"You can always say some hacker got into your mailer," Rafe pointed out. "It's not like you could have been very coherent." 

"Read. The. Fucking. Out box addies," Stephen growled. 

Rafe went down on one knee and leaned over Blair shoulder. "I don't know any of these..." he paused a minute, then muttered "Uh, oh." He looked back over his shoulder at the still motionless Stephen. "Enrique Esquivel? Isn't he the guy who...?" 

"That trip to South America," Jim murmured in recognition. 

Blair said "It looks like...he found out you were getting married through communications channels with MBE, and while he was told you weren't planning on a honeymoon...he insists you bring your wife with you on this upcoming trip so that you can combine business with a couple of weeks on his estates, as his wedding gift to you." 

Silence fell in the room. 

"Well, no problem," Jim said. "Just say she can't make it." 

"Jim, you don't get it," Stephen said. 

"If this guy is old world, uh, well, you know, pseudo-gangster, like we were talking about when this came up a couple of weeks ago, it would be a grave insult to refuse such an offer, Jim," Blair said. "One big enough to ruin MBE's business relationship with the guy. Which would leave Stephen in as much of a mess as his refusal to take the assignment would have." 

"Brian had decided to come along for this trip," Stephen said, "even though I was against it--he we'd just have to hope we could find another long-term solution, since there isn't time to find one just now. We were going to say he was my bodyguard, which he's certainly qualified for, and which would explain his being with me all the time, since calling him my assistant or whatever likely wouldn't get him absolutely everywhere with me. Now, though, I have to produce a wife, or..." 

"But...what did you say in your reply?" Rafe wondered. 

"He said," Blair said, "that he was honored by Esquivel's generosity and he was more than happy to accept the offer. He even bothered to write it in Spanish." 

"I thought your Spanish was pretty rusty, Stephen," Jim said. 

"It is," he said. "Undoubtedly that's why I needed Blair. He must have translated for me." 

"Great, just great," Jim sighed. "What the _fuck_ were you thinking, Stephen?! Couldn't you have said your wife fell down the stairs and broke her leg just after the wedding and couldn't travel?" 

"Then he'd have looked like a scumbag for leaving her," Blair pointed out. "To Esquivel, at least." 

"Then what _did_ you have in mind when you answered that note?" 

"How the fuck should I know!? I don't even remember writing it! But, faced with a fait accompli...Brian, how would you feel about a honeymoon?" 

* * *

"Well why not?" Rafe wondered. 

Jim added "Stephen, if Megan's willing to pretend to be your wife, I don't see--" 

"No." 

Megan, wearing some of Rafe's sweats, sat at the kitchen table staring into her coffee. She hadn't said much beyond making her offer. 

The cleaning crew had finished up and taken off about an hour before; the place was once again relatively intact. The occupants were another story. Coffee infusions had commenced again while Blair listlessly prepared stir-fry for dinner. Everyone else slumped around the table in various attitudes of disgust and disgruntlement. 

"Stephen, why are you being such a pain? We're trying to help you, here," Simon grumped. 

"Brian and I did this for a reason. I'm not going to hide what we are together. Well, as a couple, I mean, not the sentinel thing." 

"Stephen, this guy will feed you to his fighting cocks if he finds out you're gay. If there's one place it's _not_ okay to be gay, it's Latino/Hispanic society, just about any part of it, any place in the world. You're not going to make things any better by doing this." 

"My partners have agreed to back me. The company buying those shares back at a profit to the shareholder after the stockholder's meeting, when we offered, verifies that." 

"Practically nobody thought they needed to dump their stock because one of the company's partners was coming out!" Jim protested. "Or only a few people did it, at least." 

"Still, they said they'd buy back the shares of any stockholder who felt they were in for a loss when I came out publicly, and they did. If we lose this supplier, then we--" 

"I thought you were worried about nearly a thousand unskilled laborers losing their jobs," Rafe reminded him. 

"And I am. I just...I know this is the right thing to do. I know that anything else...would ultimately be worse for everyone, them included. How do I put it...it would set a bad...a bad precedent." 

"You mean for you and Brian, being upfront about the two of you?" Jim scoffed. 

"That's only part of it." 

"Maybe you knew last night," Blair said softly. "Maybe that's why you answered the note the way you did." 

"Maybe. Alcohol really screws with Jim's senses when he gets too messed up, though, doesn't it?" 

"It can. It has before. Sometimes it doesn't seem to do anything but make him buzzed. He can drink a few beers okay." 

"Well, whatever. Brian, if you'll do this with me...this is what I want, this is how I want to handle it. I meant everything I said at the party yesterday. I'm not going to deny you. My partners agreed to back me. If this is the way it's going to be, then the time to start is now. I thought that was the whole point--" 

"Stephen." Brian reached over and covered Stephen's hand with his own. "It is the point. I believe in what we're doing, too. I'm just...worried about you. I can deal with danger to myself--be a pretty shitty cop if I couldn't--but it's even harder, watching _you_ being at risk, than I thought it was going to be." 

"The worst that can happen is--" 

"--is this chucklehead will feed you to his fighting cocks," Jim said. "You're the one who told us what a scary customer he is in the reality-gyroscope department." 

"That won't happen, Jim." 

"Your intuition, again?" 

"No. I just...I just believe. This is the right way to handle it." He was calm, quiet, certain in a way it was harder to argue with than the most impassioned tirade. 

Rafe sighed. "It's your call, Stephen. You know I'm behind you." 

"I know." Stephen squeezed his hand. "Everybody else?" 

Connor sighed, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "My life as a fag hag," she muttered. "Stephen, if anything happens to you, I will fly down there and nail that sorry swagger's bum to the nearest rubber tree." 

"Me too," said Jim. 

"Same here," Simon nodded. "We'll back your ass up if we have to, Stephen. I'm just glad Rafe will be there." 

"My partners are aware of the situation too, and the company's behind me. Schroeder would hire a commando force if he had to. Blair?" Stephen wondered. 

Blair paused in shaking oregano into the stir-fry, and said "You know I'm with you, Steve. But when you get back okay, that's when I'll pat you on the back for being so gutsy." 

"I can live with that," Stephen murmured. "Thanks, everyone." 

"Grab a plate, everyone," Blair said. 

* * *

"I do hate his leaving with so much still up in the air," Jim muttered. They were in the terminal, watching Stephen talking with a medium-sized crowd of power suits from MBE, computer open on his lap, cell held between shoulder and ear as he tapped keys. Rafe was sitting next to him, eyeing the crowd with barely checked suspicion. Some few people were eyeing him back nervously, but it seemed to be more for the air of protectiveness he radiated than disquiet over the recently revealed nature of his relationship with their boss. 

"It's only a couple of weeks," Blair muttered him, his tone sounding like he was talking to himself as much as to Jim. 

"God, look at him," Jim sighed. "My baby brother." 

"My pal Steve," Blair chuckled in agreement. 

"I can't believe that's the same tear-streaked little boy I used to rock to sleep when he cried at night. The same kid I used to get into sneezing wars with when we both had colds." 

"Everyone grows up," Blair said softly. "But you're right. He's a heck of a guy. Wait a minute--sneezing wars?" 

"It must've been the fever. We'd chase each other around when we felt a sneeze coming, trying to snot each other out. You should have seen the faces Sally made." 

"Ick. You guys were gross." 

Jim grinned. "Sometimes. Can you just imagine him doing that now?" 

Blair cracked up. "Since I've seen him mostly when he's just kicking around with us, not when he's in his professional element, like now--well, yeah, I can. But I see what you mean." 

The flight was announced. "We'd better go say our goodbyes," Jim said. He and Blair got up and made their way over to the crowd around Stephen and Rafe, which reluctantly parted before them. 

"I've gotta go, Grace," Stephen said. "They called my flight. I'll get in touch with you again when we land...yeah...right. No problem. See you, Grace." He clicked off the phone and stuck it in his coat pocket, folding up his laptop. "Anything else will have to wait, everybody, I'll be in touch. I'd like some privacy with my brother, please." 

The crowd melted like April snow, murmuring good-trip wishes, to which Stephen nodded and smiled thanks. He gave his laptop to one of his assistants; Douglas and a few others would be accompanying he and Rafe. For now, though, they faded toward the boarding ramp, leaving Jim, Stephen, Rafe and Blair in relative privacy. 

"Well...heck." Jim held out his arms. Stephen smiled and folded him close. They squeezed a long moment. 

"Wish I could kiss you," Jim whispered in Stephen's ear. 

"I wish we could, too," Stephen murmured back, smiling. "I consider myself kissed." 

"Me too." They separated, finally, to see Blair and Rafe hugging, too. 

"Take care of him," Blair said; the words were innocuous enough, but they weren't only a politeness in this case--they could all hear that. 

"I will, Blair, always, you know that." 

"Yeah." The two of them moved apart, and Blair went to hug Stephen, as Jim held his hand out to Rafe. The two of them clasped hands a long moment. 

"You'd think we were leaving for good," Rafe chuckled. 

"Yeah," Jim said, with a sideways nod of acknowledgement. "Well, this is a big step. The first...the first time Blair and I leave the two of you quite so alone, and the situation is so...there's so much we still don't understand, about..." 

"It's iffy. Yeah, there's a lot...there's a lot to consider, still, in a lot of areas. But as far as this trip goes, Jim, try not to worry, though I know you will--for all practical purposes, under these circumstances, I _am_ Stephen's bodyguard. I've got all the permits to carry my gun. If it's humanly possible to protect Stephen, you know I can do it." 

"I know you, Rafe. I know you can." They were silent a moment, as Blair and Stephen continued hugging and murmuring quietly to each other; finally, Jim tugged on the hand he held, and pulled Rafe into a quick, hard hug. "And look out for yourself, too, brother-in-law." 

Rafe smiled as they backed away from each other again. "Hey, don't I always?" 

Jim gave him a sour look and Rafe cracked up. 

People were boarding. As Stephen and Rafe moved toward the ramp, Blair subtly took Jim's hand and squeezed it. "Always hard when they leave the nest, isn't it?" 

"Oh, give me a break, Chief." But he was grinning. 

They watched the 727 taxiing around, and though the plane vanished from normal human sight only a few minutes later, Blair didn't mind standing at the huge windows of the terminal until even Jim couldn't see it any more. 

"Time to go, Jim," he murmured finally. "Simon's expecting you, and I've got a class." 

"Right," Jim sighed finally. "You know what, Chief? It's not that I...that I want to own him, limit him, take the love he has with other people away from him--but sometimes...I wish he didn't belong to so many people, in so many different ways. All those people hanging around him a few minutes ago...sometimes I wish he was still...you know. All mine. My Stevie." 

"It's okay, Jim," Blair murmured. "That's not jealousy, not greed. That's just nostalgia. There was a time when you only felt safe with each other, and you felt _completely_ safe with each other. Despite the difficulty of keeping what you had under wraps, it was a much simpler time. And love was simpler...love, for you, _was_ Stephen. And for him, love was you." 

Jim nodded slightly, eyes still fixed on the sky. "Well, like you said. Everyone grows up." 

"And it's not a bad thing, Jim." 

"No. It's not." Jim smiled a little. Blair smiled back up at him, and Jim shook his head slowly, saying "Life's a hell of a thing, isn't it?" 

Blair laughed. "Sure is, man." He squeezed Jim's hand again. "I love you." 

"Love you too, Chief." 

* * *

>S  
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>In this series, Jim and Stephen Ellison had a loving and consensual sexual  
relationship in their teens, and have begun another as adults. 

 


End file.
